


You Control The Tide

by fishingboatblues



Series: You Always Leave Me When The Sun Comes Out [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Getting Shipwrecked, Incest, Lack of Communication, M/M, Memory Issues, Mutual Pining, Somnophilia, Sort of just wanted to put the tag in just in case, Twincest, brief animal skinning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingboatblues/pseuds/fishingboatblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst Stan was amnesiac Stan and Ford shared an unfortunate kiss, Ford having given into the feelings that he holds for his brother. Weeks later whilst on the Stan o’ War II tensions rise as Stan’s mind frays at the edges and so does his control.</p><p>When their boat crashes on the shores of a deserted island the two must work together, not only to fix their relationship but also to survive the looming worry that all may not be right with Stan’s mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Diminished Capacity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6064855)
> 
> Which I would say is required for full enjoyment and understanding of the fic, but at your own discretion let it so be.
> 
> Title loosely based on a sentence from this [song:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SU93XSWxqM)
>
>> You took control of my emotions,  
> Like the moon rules the tide.

It’s been almost three weeks since the acid-tastic event that had been Weirdmageddon, and Stan’s still sore in all the wrong places but he’s fine, he’s whole, well mostly whole. He’s got most of his memories back, except for maybe a couple of nights spent in Vegas, but if he knows himself as well as he thinks he does he’s probably better off _not_ knowing.

People tend to repress memories _for a reason_ and he’d rather not kick up a fuss about a couple of blurry barely recalled nights in the gambling capital of the world. What’s that saying he heard once? Oh, yeah, ‘what happened in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ And with his amnesia? Well, that saying has never been more literal.

He’s got bigger fish to fry than a couple of uncooperative memories floating around that noggin of his. He’s not really one for analogies but Ford is his _White Whale_ , his current obsession. Well, technically, if he’s being honest it’s less ‘current’ and more ‘classic’. Ford’s always been on his mind in some way or another, whether or not he’s been front and center or riding out in the back just waiting to pop into his mind and mess with his thought process doesn’t matter. He’s just…always been there, ya know?

Ford’s the kind of guy that you can’t forget about, especially when you’ve grown up with him right at your side, and always at your back when you need him.  Ford’s like a dye pack on stolen cash, impossible to remove.

Ford’s kinda like the Sun, and Stan’s the Moon or some shit like that. Ford’s like, Ford’s this big insurmountable thing. This big bright being that’s everything Stan isn’t and Stan’s this big hunk of rock that doesn’t really do much on its own, this big hunk of rock that’s full of holes and craters…it ain’t pretty. All Stan can really do is revolve around him, hoping to get a little of that light on him, ya know? And it’s always been like that, always been that way but that’s okay. He’s okay with maybe being too fixated on his twin, he’s come to terms with it. It doesn’t have a label or name but it’s there and it’s been a permanent fixture for as long as he can, heh, _remember_.

The main problem here is, well, his own stupidity really. He hadn’t expected to react so damn weird to being memory wiped, he hadn’t expected for some of his old… _tendencies_ to make a flashy show of themselves. God, he can’t believe he put the moves on Ford! That’s beyond embarrassing, that’s like a slice of mortification pie right there. But it isn’t his actions he should be thinking about, it’s Ford’s.

Ford kissed him, like _really_ kissed him. Not a sweet naïve peck on the cheek or any of that cute forehead kissing that he’s seen some people do, some people who namely are not Pines. It was full lip on lip contact, it was a sweating palms, shaking legs and a hard on in your jeans, kind of kiss. He would know, he's the master of them.

He remembers how those lips felt, all warm, chapped and trembling, he remembers the stubble brushing against his chin. He remembers most of all how Ford’s eyes burned right through him and boy had looking through his brother’s glasses and into his eyes been an experience; it was like looking at bottled lightning, like he was a storm barely contained behind the frame of his spectacles.

He remembers how that washed down, diluted son of a bitch version of himself had felt when looking at him; confused, fearful, intimidated and lustful as fuck. He’d been just looking to get on Ford’s good side, make sure that he’d be safe and kept around, but in that moment he’d wanted it. He had wanted more, he had wanted touch, skin on skin, the meaty slap of friction and movement and just plain _sex_. He had wanted another kiss and another, _Jesus_ , he had wanted that six fingered hand grasping his jaw again, heck maybe even wrapped around his throat. By that point he hadn’t really been thinking with his big head, not that his ‘little head’ was in any way small.

“We should be reaching international waters soon.” He hears his brother say and it almost sends him flying overboard, fishing rod in hand and what an embarrassment that would’ve been.

He rights himself and sends an irritated look over his shoulder. He waves his fishing rod pointedly at his brother as his heart beats frantically in his chest, hopefully he’s not yet old enough to be wary of heart attacks. “Jesus, Sixer! Give a guy a little warning, would you?”

He hears the smug bastard snicker at that and he’s probably never going to live down jumping out of his skin like a little kid. I mean he’s punched a dream demon in the face, a pterodactyl in the eye, he’s supposed to be like Randy Savage, not Randy Newman.

He turns his head to Ford, only to see him leaning against the cabin wall writing in a new journal he’d brought along for the occasion. He…looks good. Sea life has surprisingly been healthy for his brother, he looks calmer and, since Bill’s been gone, he’s definitely been sleeping better. It must be something in the salty air that’s doing it, or maybe it’s just the sheer relief of having saved the world. Maybe it’s none of these or it’s both, who knows? Stanley doesn’t.

Stanley takes his time to stare at Ford, to really take in how he looks. He memorizes the picture his nerdy brother makes standing there with his hair flapping in the wind like some harlequin romance novel, his face flushed red from the cold air and his hand curled around a pen.

 He looks all rugged standing there, yet somehow soft. He looks at peace, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be than stuck on this little pilothouse with his twin brother. It’s more than a little warming, it tugs at Stan heartstrings and makes him a little sappy at the thought of his brother feeling content, _of all things_ , by his side.

Ford’s eyes swivel to him, looking up from his journal. His momentary peace now forgotten and when their eyes catch each other, when their gazes lock Stan gulps, his mouth going dry. He’s not thinking about the kiss, _he’s not_. It’s the last thing on his mind, it’s right up there with how it felt to have Ford’s hands run up his arms, it’s up there with how it felt to pin that damned nerd to that fucking tree.

Stanley Pines; master of denial. He’s really got this whole ‘not thinking of stuff’ thing down. He’s like a renaissance artist but only in regards to denial, repression and lying to one’s self, it’s actually more than a little impressive.

He exhales shakily; alright, honestly he’s _so_ , he’s fucked, completely fucked. He’s failing spectacularly at this.

“You looked so…focused.” Ford remarks out of nowhere. “Are you alright? Is your memory-”

Stan sighs, they’ve been doing this song and dance since they left the shoreline. “My memory’s _fine_ , Poindexter.” _But not as fine as you are_ , the irredeemable flirt and street walker inside of his mind offers, and it only serves to make him shake his head hard enough to give him a little crick in his neck.

Ford, as expected, frowns at the weird mixed messages Stan is no doubt delivering. Jesus, could he be any more obvious? Could he be any weirder? He might as well be broadcasting this shit for all he’s doing, he’s not exactly being conspicuous about the crap going through his mind. Ford’s a little oblivious about this kind of thing, but he’s not stupid, eventually he’ll catch on to the fact Stan’s driving himself crazy thinking about the incestual forest lip locking the two of them got up to.

On second thought though, why is _he_ the one bottling this shit up? What he did, well, he did it under extenuating circumstances. Ford on the other hand? He can’t speak for his brother but as far as Stan knows he wasn’t operating under any kind of amnesia, he knew what he was doing and he’d been trying to stop the whole thing from the word ‘go’, until he _hadn’t_ , that is. Until he’d gone and kissed him like he was some hot broad.

Stan can’t help but wonder what the hell is going through his twin’s head, what is Sixer thinking about, huh? What’s going on in that smarty pants noggin of his? Is he just as torn up about this as he is? Or has he already banished the event from his mind, forgotten it like it’s something unimportant? That thought hurts more than he’d expected it to, sure he’s old and he’s been out of the game for a long time but even amnesiac he’d thought his kissing skills had been more than just mediocre, he’d go so far as to call them memorable even.

They should probably talk about this, he realizes. They should probably be talking this shit out, you know, like _rational_ adults. He laughs at the thought and not just in his head, but aloud too. Sixer looks at him with wide eyes and more than a little confusion, he laughs harder his voice cracked like shit and maybe just a little hysterical.

Ford moves away from the cabin, his hand reaching out before he’s even close enough to touch. He looks freaked, twitchy, but who wouldn’t be when their twin is laughing all Jack Nicholson style not long after a close encounter of the three sided kind with an immortal dream demon?

The hand touches his shoulder and shakes him, shakes him until he stops laughing, Ford’s saying something but he can’t really hear it, all he can hear is the sound of the rushing waves cresting against the bow of the boat. The tide is sweeping away the sound and making the world greyscale and silent in its wake, it’s like being transcended someplace else, it’s like dying and being reborn in a single moment.

All he can hear is his own breath rushing out like a broken vacuum cleaner and all he can see is how Ford’s eyes dance like fire on oily water. His brother is afraid, _terrified_ and once he realizes that, once he really takes it in, that knowledge becomes top priority and sound and colour come back to him.

“Stanley, Stanley! Can you hear me? What’s going on-”

His life is spiraling out of his control, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He’s desperately trying to grasp at it all, put it back in that damn hourglass where it belongs but it just keeps being blown away by any gust of wind strong enough to make his memories airborne. His mind feels like someone took a cheese grater to it and said ‘why the fuck _not_?’

He feels like common sense is as rare as gold on a New Jersey beach and so he does what he usually does when common sense isn’t all that common; he gives into his impulses.

A hand forcefully grabs onto the straps of a mustard coloured life jacket, grips it tight and just _yanks_. Suddenly he’s got a mouthful of _twin_ , a mouthful of the only person that ever really mattered to him, he’s got a grip on Sixer and he doesn’t want to let go. He’s drowning in whatever this panic is, and goddamn he better not be having some kind of panic attack or crisis from all the memories he’s reclaimed in such a short space of time.

He’ll kick his own ass if that’s what this whole mess is.

Poindexter just flails into the kiss, he’s like a fish on land, he’s all awkwardness and floundering limbs. Where’s all that grace gone, Sixer? Where’s all that confidence and surety gone now? Did it leave the moment he got his mind back? Or did it evaporate the moment Stan instigated the kiss? Sixer, are you only ever confident when you know you’re the one that’s going to pull away? Is what he wants to ask, but he doesn’t, he simply pushes Ford away.

“I’m _alright_.” He growls, irritable and angry, with himself more than Ford. He drops his fishing rod to the floor, it clacks against the surface of the ship in a way that only echoes and echoes. He looks Ford up and down quickly and with venom he doesn’t really mean, he doesn’t even know what the fuck it is he’s doing when he brushes past his brother, their shoulders rubbing briefly.

Ford knows better than to follow him to the berth, but his eyes watch him as he leaves, questions and confusion obvious even in the dim light the moon gives off.

They _really_ should talk about this. One day, _some_ day, but right now he’s too pissed at Ford, at _himself,_ to think of using words instead of fists. He lies down on his bunk and tries to calm the beating of his heart, to think of something that isn’t his brother’s stupid lips and just how much trouble they’ve caused him over the last few weeks.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it does come faster than expected.


	2. Chapter 2

 

The next day comes and Ford doesn’t know what to expect, last night’s events had thrown him for a loop to say the least. Part of him expects fire and brimstone, for the world to suddenly demand recompense. Part of him expects harsh seas and stormy weather to show God’s, or any other potential deity’s, displeasure. But nothing happens, the ocean is calm and steady in response, for some reason the lack of reaction is what bothers him more.

 He had spent the night tossing and turning, his traitorous brain helplessly turning the kiss over in his mind’s eye like a love struck school girl, this lust, this _obsession_ with his twin was getting out of hand. In the end he had decided to spend the remainder of his night in the cabin, not wanting to go back to the berth and invoke Stanley’s wrath. He’d had no desire to start any sort of fight and if Stan's actions and anger from last night were any indication, Stan had been more than ready for fisticuffs.

He yawns and stretches his limbs, grimacing when they crack and creak. _Oh the joys of old age,_ he muses as a familiar stab of pain permeates through his body, the cold sea air always did have the nasty side effect of causing his more serious of scars to throb and his previously, but long healed, broken bones to ache with a white hot intensity.

His body hurts more than usual but he knows that's the fault of turmoil and stress, the lack of bed inside the cabin and the awkward sleeping position he had no doubt settled into during the night. He sighs and shakes his head, he's slept in much worse places over the years; an intergalactic space prison, a planet that exuded hallucinogenic spores just as much as it produced oxygen, Rick Sanchez’s _couch_. It hardly matters.

He’d spent those hours of trying to chase sleep theorizing about the night’s events, wondering what exactly was going on in Stanley’s mind. Ford is…he doesn’t want to use the word ‘confused’ it seems an underwhelming choice in regards to what he’s currently feeling. Perplexed, perhaps? Bewildered or maybe even _mystified_ would work better as a linguistic substitute.

Something is decidedly wrong with Stan, there’s no denying it. He’s been avoidant, erratic and the biggest problem yet, he seems to be operating under some delusional state of harboring some sort of attraction towards him. Or something like that in any case.

When he’d heard his brother laughing, laughing hard and hysterical, laughing without an end in sight he’d stilled in place, paralysed. A litany of ‘oh no, oh no, please don’t be Bill, please don’t be Bill’ running through his head. A litany of ‘oh god, I can’t lose Stanley again, don’t make me lose him, not again.’ It was a moment of sheer panic, a moment of realisation that he could be losing his brother. In that moment his heart had skipped several beats and the world had turned upside down, giving him vertigo and making a long buried, but deep-seated, urge to protect his younger twin rear its head and engulf him wholly by the throat.

He hadn’t expected the kiss, if he had he might not have gotten close enough to touch, or _be_ _touched_ as it were. It’s obvious that Stan’s mind is still not stable if he thinks kissing him is any way a good idea.

But oh god, how that kiss had hurt him, physically pained him. It had been the sweetest kind of torture, it had been a chaste kiss, or as chaste as someone as physically present and emotive as Stanley can give that is. Stanley kisses unlike anyone else, he’s so physically present in the act, his whole body sways into it, like he’s trying to pull you in and make you a part of him, like he wants to merge with you on a subatomic level. He kisses like it’s the first and last thing he has ever wanted, he kisses like a black hole pulling you in until you meet the event horizon, and by then? It’s already too late.

He had wanted to savour that kiss, to take it and just give in, to, for _once_ , forget about the few boundaries he draws for himself, throw away trivial things like ‘morality’ and ‘taboo’ from his mind’s eye. He hadn’t meant for this to happen he swears on Newton’s third law; this had not been his intention at all.

He had kissed Stanley all those weeks ago, that is true. But he hadn’t been looking to court disaster, he hadn’t expected such…repercussions, but he knows he should have. For all his talk of Stanley being the impulsive and reckless twin he sure isn’t doing a good show of himself, he’s _just_ _as_ bad, if not worse! At least Stanley goes charging in with good intentions, Ford on the other hand cannot help thinking of impossible desires and selfish wants. Ford can’t help desiring Stanley, can’t help desiring the teen he used to be, can’t help desiring the grizzled old man he’s become.

This want, this _need_ , it’s in his blood. It’s wrapped around his heart like a set of vines, he feels it writhing in him like something _alive._ It’s just Stanley, he’s always invoked these feelings of furtive longing. It’s just _Stanley_ , he doesn’t know how to explain it. He’d call it love but when has love ever been this destructive? It’s why he had felt so betrayed by Stanley when his dreams of going to West Coast Tech had been dashed, but West Coast Tech in and of itself had been, in part at least, a plan to put some distance between the two of them.

He had hoped time and space would quell the storm inside him, would cause his feelings to dissipate for his brother.

It’s why he turned away that night all those years ago, when his brother had looked up at him from the street outside their home, hand held high asking for a show of comradery Stanford had been unwilling to return. He had been so angry, so _sad_ that night, so he had turned away believing and trying to convince himself it would be for the best. The best for the both of them. He can’t love someone if they’re not there, right? He can’t give in the need to _touch_ if that person is miles away and not even in the same state as him.  Really wasn’t he just saving Stanley from Ford’s perversions? Or at least that was what he had been thinking at the time.

With age came experience and new knowledge, he knew just how wrong he had been back then. Sure, he had every right to be mad at his brother, but to turn away from him and claim it to be a naïve form of protection? That was simple arrogance and a complete disregard for Stanley’s feelings.

He sighs and grabs his glasses from the table and places them on his head, the world comes to him bit by blurry bit as he tries to fully awaken from his fitful slumber. From the corner of his sleep fogged eye he sees Stan puttering about across deck and it makes a lump form in his throat.

He stares out at Stan from through the window and he, he _wants_. It’s an ache in his chest these feelings he houses inside; these feelings he’s always had. The moment where he realised he was in love with his twin was a fond memory, a fond memory that he had only upon later reflection realised that he felt more towards Stan than was appropriate.

He remembers Sunday evenings spent curled up in their room listening to the record player, the Rolling Stones and The Beatles punctuating every corner of their bedroom with musical chorus. He remembers one particular summer weekend how the lazy summer heat felt heavy on his skin as his bare legs, he’d been wearing a pair of tan shorts, brushed his brother’s.

He remembers the orange light streaming through the small gap in their curtains, he remembers how it lit up the room with a certain kind of quiescence. He recalls with perfect clarity the steady rise and full of Stanley’s chest as he lay next to Ford on the bed, they had been talking absentmindedly about the Stan o’ war and their plans for the rest of the summer before their conversation had lapsed into comfortable and contemplative silence. Stanley had somehow fallen asleep somewhere between ‘Love Me Do’ and ‘Do You Want to Know a Secret.’

He remembers how soft the covers had felt underneath his fingers tips, how at peace he had felt in that instance. No thoughts of six fingers or the bullies that awaited them back at school, just him and Stanley as it had always been, as it always should’ve been.

Appraising the memory in his mind’s eye he realizes this particular memory was before Stan had started getting shorter haircuts, before he’d started slicking his hair back to made the two of them more distinguishable from one another. Going by that they’re what? Fourteen, maybe fifteen in the memory? It’s a very formative year in a teenager’s life and his teenage experience was no different.

He recalls feeling his own eyes droop, how Stan looked so warm and comfortable at a glance. He remembers falling asleep next to him and waking up not an hour later to fingers running dreamily through his hair, and to Stan humming along to the last track on the record; Twist and Shout, this side of the record having long been restarted by his brother. He remembers looking up with blurry eyes, and the shy smile Stan gave him in return.

The fingers never stilled in his hair, never stopped, even as Stan gave the poor excuse of trying to work through the knots in Ford’s hair. They never paused once, even whilst Stan teased him about having ‘the bedhead of champions.’

He remembers waking up two weeks after that event shaking and hard for the first time in his young life, confused beyond belief. Nothing had been quite the same after that, every interaction suddenly under a new kind of scrutiny, every moment between the two of them viewed in a different, more self-aware, light. Suddenly everything had made sense, and yet he had known and understood less than ever.

He feels like that teenager again, unsure and scared of his brother’s reaction. He exhales slowly and decides it’s time to face the day, it’s time to face Stanley. He throws on the appropriate clothing and heads out to meet his twin on the deck.

“Good morning.” He begins tentatively, this time making a show of his footsteps being noticeably louder. The last thing he wants to do right now is startle his brother.

Stan turns to look at him from his customary fishing spot. “Hey.” He replies, voice surprisingly nonchalant. “You know you didn’t have to sleep in the cabin, right?”

Ford’s eyebrows raise at that; he had gotten the distinct feeling his presence had been…unwelcome. “But you-”

“I was being an asshole, Poindexter.” Stanley cuts him off. “Doesn’t mean you should’ve spent the night sleeping up top. I’m only going to say this once but, I’m mature enough to admit it; I was being childish.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have snapped at you and then fucked off, you were just making sure I was okay.”

Ford shuffles awkwardly. “We should talk about… _that_.”

“Me being a major jerk?” He questions. “Because, if so, that’s gonna be some long ass conversation that may, or may not, require the help of some trained red couch professional.” Ford merely blinks and then frowns pointedly in response, to which Stanley shrugs. “I’m just saying as all.”

Ford moves forward, passing Stanley slowly, as a way to show he isn’t just brushing him off, until he reaches the helm. He gives an approving hum at the readout on the screen, they’ve been making good time despite the stops and starts their journey has had along the way.

“I mean about all that has happened, about… _everything_.” The kiss lies unspoken between them, but Stan has always been able to read between the lines with Ford better than most, emotionally at least.

Stanley places the rod aside and rises from the chair he had been sitting on. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He remarks, voice dismissive and his hand gestures are more exaggerated than the situation requires. His brother has always been an emotive individual, even more so when he’s uncomfortable.

Ford readjusts his glasses and looks down at Stanley from over the top of the frames, a classic expression of ‘who the hell do you think you’re trying to fool?’ on his face. “We _both_ know that’s hardly the truth.”

Stanley’s fists clench at the reply and he hisses a little. “What’d you want me to say, Sixer?” He asks irritated yet somehow resigned. “We don’t do _this-_ ” He gestures between them, arms wide. “-we’ve never exactly been experts at talking this kind of crap out, and there’s a _lot_ of crap in need of airing, ya know?”

He does know and that’s exactly why they need to talk it out now whilst the day is young and whilst neither of them has yet to trespass and cause anymore frustration. He feels weird taking on this challenge, usually Stanley’s the one pushing vigorously and clumsily past carefully constructed walls and ripping apart boundaries in the need to clear the air between.

For once Ford decides to bite the bullet, to put his pride aside and force Stanley to open up, it needs to be done, he knows that even if Stan doesn’t. At the very least they need to talk about what happened yesterday. He still doesn’t know what happened to Stanley last night and he can’t afford to lose Stanley, neither his mind or his presence.

“I’m aware of that, _more_ than aware, Stanley.” He says, in a voice that doesn’t entirely sound unlike pleading. He’s even moving forward to place a hand upon Stanley’s shoulder, a gesture that’s become surprisingly common place between the two of them over the weeks. It’s one of his more innocent yearnings, one he’s found comfort in being allowed to indulge in, this casual affection eases him more than he had expected.

Stanley frowns at the hand, shrugs it off and is already turning away when he says; “Then you’d know not to push it, we’ll forget about it soon enough, just gotta ignore it ‘till then.”

Ford feels something clench inside when Stan rids himself from Ford’s touch, for a brief moment he is reminded of Fiddleford, of just how horrifyingly bad that mess spiraled out of control. He won’t let that happen again, not to Stanley. With an intensity that surprises his brother Ford grabs him by the shoulders and forces Stan to look at him, when he doesn’t immediately he shakes him a little, just enough to get his point across.

“Don’t.” Ford says through gritted teeth. “This isn’t something that’s just going to go away, Stanley! I know that, I _understand_ that more than you could ever know!”

Stan looks up into Ford’s eyes and then down at the hands gripping him hard enough to bruise, he does this several times before his face scrunches up in to a furious expression. “I said leave it be, Stanford.” He growls, his body language screaming at Stanford to back the hell off and leave him be. “And if you know what’s good for you you’ll get your damned hands off of me.”

Stanley looks as angry as Ford has ever seen him, he’s wound up all tight like a cobra ready to strike at the slightest hint of provocation. Unfortunately for either of them Ford has never had the required amount of common sense not to sharpen his metaphorical stick and poke the bear. “No.” He replies simply, making a show of gripping Stanley tighter and with more purpose. “I’m not leaving until we-” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a fist is flying through the air and ricocheting off his cheek, leaving an angry red mark that will assuredly become a bruise.

He gasps in pain, letting go off Stan’s shoulders and flying back to land against the steering wheel. He rubs at his jaw as Stanley shakes his fist and hisses. Stanley looks more shocked than Ford does, but Ford had been preparing himself for this very reaction since last night.

“I fucking _told_ you, Sixer-” This time it’s Ford’s turn to interrupt as he retaliates with a punch to the stomach that sends Stanley rolling against the gunwale.

Ford moves his legs into an all too familiar boxing stance from his brief childhood lessons, he raises one fists in front of his face but uses the other hand to point a vicious and agitated finger in Stanley’s direction. “And I _told_ you! I’m not leaving until we’ve talked this out.”

His brother staggers for a second before he catches and pulls himself up, leaning against the wall of the ship Stanley looks at him, eyes flashing as he pants heavily. He looks Ford up and down, his face going red with anger as he wipes his mouth free of spittle, he, hell the _both_ of them, look surprised when his hand comes back rosy and spotted with blood. “Oh.” Stan says to himself as he realizes the punch caused him to bite his own lip hard enough to bleed. His eyes narrow as he clenches his fists and snarls “Oh, you have _done_ it now!” before barreling at Ford like a bat out of hell.

Ford catches the punch aimed at his head but doesn’t expect the foot that kicks his legs out from underneath him. Stan has always been more of an upper body fighter, boxing having ingrained in him an instinctual need to use his fists for damn near everything. He takes a moment to be impressed by Stanley before righting himself mid fall and grabbing his twin by the jacket.

It takes them mere seconds to start grappling at each other, pulling and yanking in whatever direction they think will gain them an advantage. Half way through tussling Stan loses his beanie over the side of the boat, an endeavor the mermaids and other local wildlife will have to thank Ford for later. Stanford takes a distinct, and childish, satisfaction in playing dirty and using Stan’s hair as leverage, this smug expression of pleasure doesn’t last long as Stanley kicks his shin with enough strength and conviction to cause him to let go of his grip on Stanley’s hair, and jerk his leg high enough to lose a boot to the ocean depths.

Even whilst punching his brother hard in the arm he takes the time to mourn the loss of that piece of footwear, it’s one half of the pair he had been wearing when he had come out of the portal. It’s somehow poetic that that article of clothing had survived aliens, apocalypses, dangerous planets and ecosystems but yet it simply couldn’t withstand the human hurricane that was his brother. It’s an odd moment in a man’s life where he comes to realise he has something in common with a piece of footwear.

It’s even odder that he takes the time to do this whilst Stan is trying to brain him against the steering wheel, let it at least be said that the Pines men do not do things by halves.

“You jerk!” Stan shouts as he swings blindly for him. “This is all your damn fault!”

Stanford sidesteps the attack, his shin aching in protest. “If I recall correctly you threw the first punch!” He yells back as he manages to get a blow to Stanley’s side in.

Stanley growls and circles around him like a predator. “You fucking kissed me, you asshole! You fucking pushed me and kept pushing! You wanna talk about it so much? Fine, let’s talk about!” He says launching himself at Ford. “Tell that shit to my fist!”

Ford grunts and grabs Stan’s fist midair and yanks his brother close to him, huffing and puffing he tugs Stan’s arms behind his back and grinds his face into the wooden steering wheel. Stanley grunts as his stubble rubs irritatingly against the wood grains, his nose aches as it’s pressed into the hard the surface like a puppy pushed into its own piss stain.

Ford pants against Stan’s back, sweat dripping down his skin as he holds his squirming twin in place, his knee pressing down on his brother’s back. “No more.” He tells him, his voice lower than normal, a part of him having clearly enjoyed their fight a little too much in all the obscenest ways. “We are grown men, Stanley, we are not going to fight over two frankly underwhelming kisses that meant absolutely nothi-”

“You son of a bitch! Underwhelming? _Under-fucking-whelming?!_ ” His brother bucks against his hold to no avail. “I am the _best_ fucking kisser; I should tan your ass for saying shit like that. Underwhelming? Well, _fuck_ _you_ too, Stanford.”

“ _We share the same mother_.” He replies dryly. “And besides, Stan, you are in no position to be making threats.” Ford sighs. “I’m not going to fight you, Stanley, there’s been enough of that to last a lifetime, to last _two_ even. I’ll say it so both of us are clear on the subject. Those times we kissed? Were confused lapses in judgement on both our parts, the quicker we accept that the quicker we can move forward.”

His brother snarls and tries to donkey kick him, but Ford stops the movement before it can start by pressing down hard enough to make Stanley gasp in pain. The noise sets Ford on edge and he forces himself to remember the last time he let Stan go, after hurting him, he got punched in the face and sent through a portal to a different dimension. Stanley is simply going to have to take the discomfort in stride because Ford is not moving until his words permeate through this knucklehead’s thick skull.

Stan looks at him through the corner of his eye, no less furious than when their fight began. He’s brimming with energy and anger of a man only twice his age, his nostrils are flared and his eyes are dancing flames. As much as Ford hates to admit it, he looks attractive, unbelievably so. Ford’s eyes drag down when they catch sight of Stan’s bloodied lips, he feels something twist in his gut like a switch being turned on, he feels his fingers itch and his mouth quiver at the sight.

Ford’s eyes widen in horror when he locks gazes with Stanley who’s looking back at him with shock, something on Ford’s face must have betrayed him. Stanley looks him up and down in distasteful consideration. “Lapse in judgement you say? I call _bullshit_ , Sixer. _Me_? I get. You? This seems pretty damn _deliberate_ , Poindexter, and you _know it_!”

Ford opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ to refute his brother’s pointed line of questioning but doesn’t get to, the words die in his throat as a giant wave shakes the boat hard enough to crash it against a set of rocks he hadn’t noticed during their scuffle. The ship scrapes against the stone with a mighty ‘crack’ as the hull is scratched beyond repair, as water rushes in to fill the pockets of air immediately.

The crash sends them flying away from each other, scrambling on their hands and knees before the water crashes against the side and floods the main deck. It’s a small mercy that he manages to grab and pocket his glasses before another wave sends them spiraling.

The last thing he sees before water swallows his vision is Stanley’s terrified face being overtaken by dark waves and sea foam. His breath rushes out in bubbles as he’s knocked hard against the base of the deck, the metal plate in his head connects harshly with the wooden floor and takes him gasping into unconsciousness, Stanley’s name a scream in the back of his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys give me such emotional whiplash I swear to God.

Water rushes against his back as he surfaces from the wreckage, it grasps at his clothes with icy fingers and tears through his hair like an angry ex-girlfriend or one of those particularly _nasty_ assholes from prison. The salty air slaps him in the face like Marilyn did when leaving him after six hours of marriage. His skin is ice cold and he shivers at each wave that brushes his skin, his glasses are fogged, droplets dot the glass and obscure his vision. Heck, he’s surprised he hadn’t lost them during the nautical chaos that _literally_ rocked their boat.

He looks out to sea and squints, the world is just a series of blurs, like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting if he has to put a name to it. Damn cataracts and damn piece of shit glasses, he can barely see the sun in the sky let alone the horizon of the nearest measure of land.

He pants heavily as he waits for Poindexter to surface. They had both been wearing life jackets, it wouldn’t be long until his brother sprang to the surface, a curse in some alien language on the tip of his tongue and a heated glare he’d send Stan’s way. A couple of seconds tick by and they feel like the longest second of Stanley’s life, he can feel the ocean swallowing his soul as he swallows the lump forming in his throat. A couple of seconds go by and when nothing happens, when his brother doesn’t surface Stan’s stomach does summer salts, and it’s not just because of the lingering pain from Ford’s punch either. He feels his heart stop inside his chest and panic begin to blossom in his gut.

Oh shit, oh fucking shit, this can’t be happening. His brother can’t be…he’s brother has to be fine, any second now and that nerdy twin of his will rise from those murky depths. He’ll be alive and fine, _completely fine_.

Another second passes by and shit, _shit_ who the hell is he kidding? Ford’s not okay, Ford is not fine and Ford’s not swimming up to meet him. Is his brother…dead? He doesn't know, Stan doesn't know if he'll survive going back down to look for him, his sight is already shot to hell and his joints are already locking up due to the cold water. His split lip stings from the salt water and that old pain in his shoulder is nothing to sneeze at either, the freezing temperature makes his skin feel like it’s sizzling again but this time in a cold burn that bites.

But like always when it comes to every dangerous idea concerning his brother, like every idea that goes against all forms of self-preservation; he's going to do it anyway.

He takes one last gulp of air before submerging himself completely in water. He dives down until he can see the white paint of the Stan o’ War II sign, it glints at him almost as if grinning, oddly smug in between the grayscale colour scheme and the bubbles still rising from the sinking ship. Trust their ship to be a smug bastard with a death wish, but what should they have expected when naming it after themselves? Apples and trees, and falling not too far or however that old saying goes, he’s a bit too shivery to really think of the proper terminology.

 Desperate eyes scan his surroundings and he feels terror settling low and familiar in his chest like an old friend. The deeper he gets the less he sees, the light grows dimmer and his hopes of finding his brother grow less and less, the situation looks, he’s not going to lie to himself, bleak. He'd just gotten Stanford back and despite all the discord and awkwardness between them, he can’t lose his brother, not again, not _now._

Breath beginning to dwindle and his throat begging for oxygen he continues to search. His tenacity, his bullheadedness pays off for once when his eyes widen and he catches sight of his brother slumped against the side of the ship, the strap of his life jacket caught on a piece of broken debris. Of all the fucking irony, the one thing that’s supposed to ensure safety actively causes the danger in the first place, what the hell is up with the universe? Does it get some kind of sick kick out of watching them struggle? Does it enjoy watching them flop and flail like a pair of bears rolling down a hill?

He shakes his head and resolves to think about it later maybe, or _not_ that’s a good option too, a very Pines choice to boot. In any case he can question how much of a bastard the universe is later, preferably after Ford has grovelled at his knees, safe and sound, thanking him for saving his life, _again_. It’s probably not going to happen but a man can dream, can’t he?

He squints and through the water he can see Ford’s hair is swaying in the current. His eyes are closed even as bubbles rise from his agape mouth, but that isn't the only thing rising, Stanley notices. Rising into the water, terrifying, red and looking like the beginnings of a water colour painting is blood, blood from a wound somewhere on Ford’s head.

All humour, bravado or otherwise, is immediately thrown out the window as bright and blinding fear fills his chest like helium in a balloon. Stanley swims to him, his face full of fear, fear Stanford is already dead, fear that they won't surface in time, fear that Ford will die and it'll be all his fault because he couldn't just talk shit out.

His hands land on Ford as he tries to free his brother, he can feel his own lungs protesting and a few heart breaking seconds pass where freeing his brother seems impossible. He’ll think back on that moment later, he’s sure, it’s the kind of thing he knows he’ll have nightmares about. More importantly it’s the brief moment where his brain tells him, in no uncertain terms, ‘leave him Stan’ and ‘you can make it without him’ that’ll bother him. That’s the kind of shit that’ll haunt him when he lays his head down.

He fucking hates having those thoughts, he swears he never had them before he was kicked out; like a lot of the weird shit in his head it comes from his time on the street and his time in prison. Parts of his mind are still used to the time in his life where safety wasn’t guaranteed and friends were just enemies in disguise, waiting to turn on you whenever it would benefit them.  That part of his brain, when it gets the chance to do the heavy lifting, is selfish and would rather leave Ford to the ocean than take a risky gamble.

The thoughts don’t last long as the rest of his brain shushes that part like a rude toddler acting up for attention. He feels something give in his grip and he can practically hear a chorus of hallelujahs, complete with orchestral soundtrack, play in the back of his mind as he manages to unbuckle the thing from around Ford’s waist.

Immediately he pulls Ford by the hand, swimming upwards quicker than that one time he had to swim across the border to avoid being taken in by the state police. They break through the water and he gasps as air fills his lungs and to his relieved surprise his brother sputters and coughs in his grasp, water spewing from his mouth.

Stan takes a moment to thank Paul Bunyan as they bob and sway with the waves.

He holds Ford close as they float and ride the seafoam, he wraps an arm around his waist and the touch feels oddly natural, oddly intimate even in the wake of near death. He shakes his head again, wet strands flopping against his forehead as he tries not to examine that, ignoring the odd feelings swirling in his gut he mostly strains to keep his brother up right and his head above water.

He uses this closeness as an advantage as he examines his brother, he’d been unconscious for at least a little while before Stan had fished him out, that warranted enough concern on its own. He stares at him, assessing Ford with his eyes; blood is still coming from his head and his eyes are hooded in tiredness but are open nonetheless. He doesn’t look _great_ but he looks good enough for now at least.

He lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he had been holding. His brother isn’t dead, that’s something, he’s probably pissed beyond all reason and he’s probably going to give Stanley an earful once their safe and sound but that doesn’t matter. All that matters to him is the heart beating frantic against his slicked palm and the tuft of wild hair brushing against his nose. 

“S-stanley…” Ford coughs out, voice shaky and disjointed from all the brine he’s coughed up and the freezing cold water licking at his blood coated skin. “W-we n-n-eed to get, to get to land.” Ford continues and never has Stan agreed with him more.

* * *

Luckily, and Stan uses that term loosely considering all the shit that’s happened to them in a short amount of time, for them land was closer than Stan’s eyesight had lead him to believe.

They pull their bodies to shore like death given sluggish but firm motion, they flail, pant and drag themselves across the ground, chipped nails yanking at the earth to gain purchase. They look like the kind of people any sane person would whisper warnings about and avoid on principal if walking the same street, they look half dead drenched like drowned rats and skin dotted with goose bumps. They look weary but not yet done, they look like the kind of people Stan had never expected them to be.

Most of it has to do with the way they barely say a word to each other and how, when they lock eyes, there is an anger and a conflict there, not yet burning a flame but not yet embers either.

The first thing they do upon reaching land is try to start a fire in hopes of staving off hypothermia. Fortunately for them the Island they had washed up on wasn’t as barren as being in the Arctic Ocean would’ve suggested. It’s not the Ritz that’s for certain but Stan’s had worse, and although Ford hasn’t said anything and he doesn’t know the details behind Ford’s time in that sci-fi sideburn dimension, he knows his brother’s had worse too.

They’re both worse for wear, like skeletons merely wearing their skin as opposed to actually living in it. All is silent between them and neither one of them can look the other in the eye, even as they both clearly ruminate on the wreckage both resting at the bottom of the ocean, and the wreckage so clearly between them.

 By the time they get the fire going things have lapsed into awkward contemplation. Stan sneezes a little, rubs his hands together and places them in front of the fire, he eyes Ford with an expression he hopes is unreadable. He hopes he’s being subtle but he doesn’t think Ford would notice anything right now, his eyes are slanted and drooping and it worries him.

It worries him because god, does Ford ever look shitty. His hair and face are caked with his own blood and he shakes where he sits, still cold despite the fire sparking between them. A bruise is already swelling on his cheek, Stan, with guilt coiling low like a snake in his stomach, recognises it as the place where his fist collided with Ford’s face. He remembers feeling guilty half way through the swing, he remembers clearly aiming for his brother’s nose but the fear of braking it had sent the swing lopsided and crashing barely an inch or two to the side.

He bites his lip as he looks at the ruddy mark marring his brother’s features. In that moment everything about Stanford is red and ragged, stained with blood and marked by new bruises he sits there like a tarnished ruby, even as he’s illuminated by dancing flames no less red than he is.

It steals Stan’s breath a little; red has always been _his_ colour.

Ford takes that very moment to look up at Stan from where he had been peering at the burning wood. Stanley looks away and gives a polite but awkward cough, not entirely sure what to say but knowing he’s been caught, hah, _red_ handed in his staring.

“Hey.” Is what he finally settles on, it’s not exactly poetry but Ford didn’t bring him on this adventure, a word he’s quickly starting to equate with ‘fuckery of epic proportions’, for his sparkling commentary and feats of poetic bullshittery.

“Hello.” Ford replies, prim, proper and face unreadable as always and Stan knows, with certainty, like many things about his brother that this just a different type of bravado, different to his own but still blindingly similar in its effectiveness.

The moment Sixer feels unbalanced he resorts to a scholarly type of aloofness as best he can, it’s something Stan’s been learning and relearning over the last few weeks. He doesn’t know everything about Stanford, not anymore or maybe he never did in the first place, but hell if this whole experience isn’t shaping up to be one hell of a crash course, in more ways than one.

“You, you’re…” He begins, so elegant and graceful. Hah, who’s he kidding? He sounds like an idiot even as he gives a cough to clear his throat and enough time to untie the knot in his tongue. “You’re bleeding.” He finally says, unhelpful and as obvious as the weather.

“I’m aware.” Is all he says and Stan doesn’t have to look at Ford’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes or at the very least looking mighty put out. Some things about Ford are just that predictable, he prides himself on knowing that much at least.

Stan just sighs, tired by how much _effort_ it’s taking just to get a word out of his own damn mouth. He clenches his fists and decides to speak, decides to forget about whatever the fuck is going on between them. Spoken or unspoken, subconscious or conscious decisions or mistakes aside, he decides; why the hell not?

“Let me help you with that.”  He says and Ford flinches at Stanley’s outstretched hand. Something is all too familiar in the way this plays out but Stan's too focused on the task at hand to think about the situation in depth. They both frown and Ford moves, his back suddenly straighter and no longer leaning as he stares right into Stan’s retinas like they’re the biggest mystery in the damn universe. 

“What...?” Ford says dumbly; he looks startled as if remembering something outside of Stanley’s realm of comprehension.

“I said ‘let me help you with that’ Poindexter, it’s not multi-dimensional paradigm theory and frankly you’d probably be _more_ likely to understand that but-” He pauses and points to his own face dramatically. “-I was only offering to fix that biz with your face, Sixer, you look like someone got fancy with the tribal war paint.”

Ford seems to relax a little at that, some imaginary weight lifting from his shoulders a little. He still looks at Stan skeptically but his frowns lines have eased up some, he doesn’t look like Superman trying to use his heat vision anymore, that’s some sort of progress at least.

“Well, you look like a drowned rat.” He shoots back, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips but Stan can tell his heart’s not really in it, he decides to humor him anyway.

“That cuts me _deep_ , Sixer.” His says, voice faux offended and a hand dramatically placed to his heart. “You’re just jealous I totally _rock_ the wet t-shirt look when you look only marginally more attractive than you do when dry.”

This time Ford’s smile is genuine as he gives a laugh that’s a tad more hysterical than it probably needs to be, but Stan gets it; Ford’s tired and the day has been the very definition of nautical misfortune, and that’s not even mentioning the potential fucking concussion Ford’s sporting.

Ford shoots him a coy smile that’s a little loopy, he thinks that the blood loss and the day’s general insanity are to blame, but with Ford one can never _really_ tell. “Only marginally?” He questions. “We’re _identical twins_ , Stanley.” He continues, amusement and vague fondness light but still evident in his tone.

Stan feels laughter bubble within him, Stan _has_ to laugh and he does.

He laughs for what feels like an age, long enough for Stanford to get that concerned look he had on last night and _shit_ , the world wobbles a little like it did back then too. The feeling doesn’t last long; he manages to calm himself down before any sort of panic can take root, but the weirdness doesn’t leave him entirely unscathed.

He suddenly recalls the feeling of Bill’s hand wrapped around his, the bright blue fire licking at his heels and nipping at his hair…erasing all that he is and burning away the chore of his being. He shakes his head and another memory fills his mind’s eye; the feeling of lips upon his own, of his brother’s glasses knocking against his and of stubble rubbing hard enough to irritate.

These are memories he already knows, but as he’s come to notice with his ‘condition’ sometimes his mind just yanks up memories. Sometimes he’ll just taste something, an old meal he remembers having, sometimes he’ll hear a sound that isn’t there, other times he’ll feel the phantom touch of hands that aren’t _really_ there. He tries to ignore the latter as quickly as he can usually, those particular memories are for the most part better left untouched.

It’s probably just a stress thing.

“Stanley?” His brother tentatively asks. “Are you-”

He doesn’t need to hear the end of the sentence to know it’s a question regarding his health, one he doesn’t know how to answer, so he gives a dismissive wave. “I’m fine.” He tells him, voice firm but lacking any bite. “Now, not to go off topic but your face ain’t getting any better and you took a nasty bash to the head, Sixer, let me take a look at it, okay? Just so I know you’re alright, It’ll bother me if I don’t.”

Ford doesn’t look like he wants to let the matter drop but his expression changes when a hand comes up to questioningly touch at his own head. His face is now etched in a painful grimace and Stan grimaces too; he tries to ignore it mostly, but there’s very little he can do about the sympathy glaringly obvious in his eyes.

“Alright.” Ford concedes, his voice whispery like he would rather be doing anything but letting his younger twin look over his injuries. This is actually something he _does_ recognise.

Ford has always been flighty when it comes to Stan checking him over, he can’t count on one or even _two_ hands how often Ford had gotten all blushy and awkward every time Stan had patched him up after every interaction or fight with a bully. It wasn’t often that Sixer had gotten into a scuffle, but it hadn’t been rare enough that Stan didn’t remember that first aid box they used to hide underneath the bottom bunk. It’s been years, almost a life time, but he still remembers holding Ford’s split lip in between his fingers after a particularly nasty run in with Crampelter.

He can still remember it quivering in his grasp as he’d looked it over to make sure no sand had stuck to him after he’d face planted the beach. Stan’s never had the best bedside manner or the gentlest of touches, but he’s always been decent when it came to caring for his twin, or he had at least believed so anyway.

He reaches out to Ford, sleeve stretched over his hand; it’s not the best substitute for a washcloth but all they’ve currently got is the clothes on their back so it’ll have to do.

The sleeve is still pretty damp with ocean water as he brushes it over Ford’s face, he’s as gentle as he can be as the blood starts to wash off and stain the cuffs of Stanley’s sweater. He takes a second to mourn this article of clothing, it’s a jumper Mabel had knitted and mailed to him during their last visit to the nearest port. It’s his favourite and he’s probably never going to get the myriad of stains out now, but he’s okay with that, his brother comes first.

His face starts to clear up and Stan gets a better look at it; Ford’s cheek is still red but doesn’t look to be swelling or anything, Sixer should be fine on that front. It’s his head he’s worried about.

“Mind if I check you for concussion, Sixer?” He asks, leaning back to get a better look at his brother’s bloody forehead and sticky hair. It’s probably just a cut on his scalp causing all the fuss, Stan’s had scalp injuries before; most of which were often the result of poor life choices and the unsurprising, but expected, fallout of having a mullet for a hairdo. He knows how much of a bitch scalp wounds are; they always bleed like a bitch.

“I’d _know_ if I was concussed, Stanley. This is hardly my first time having a head injury.” Ford answers, voice imperious and his arms are crossed over his chest.

Stan takes a second to absorb that info. He doesn’t know much about Ford’s time on the other side of the portal and he probably never will, Sixer’s always had an ‘out of side out of mind’ point of view in regards to some of his more personal problems. At the very least Ford’s admission confirms some of what Stan has already deduced; life back there was hardly a cakewalk.

Stanley rolls his eyes and gets into Ford’s space again, doing so before Ford can find some way to slink away or dissuade Stan from further caretaking. His fingers brush through his brother’s hair and they both grimace for entirely different reasons; the blood feels dry and flaky against Stan’s hand and his hair is stuck together as he weaves his fingers through his brother’s locks.

It’s been a while since his hand has been in Ford’s hair in a way that didn’t involve a fist fight, probably more than forty years now if his memory is to be trusted. It’s a shame it has to be under such shitty circumstances.

He feels around his brother’s noggin, careful to keep his touch light, and all he feels is a slight bump and a cut that runs down his brother’s hair line. He nods to himself, it’s better than he’d expected it to be, he’s brother might not even be concussed, what a small mercy that would be, ay?

He pulls his hand away, satisfied with his ‘diagnosis’ but before he can pull away too far Ford grips him by the wrist. Stan looks down at his hand and then back up at Ford, who looks back at him intently, his eyes glinting and maybe a little hungry.

Stan’s confusion is evident in the way his brows dip and the way Stan bites his lip, he doesn’t know why but he feels…scared? Or maybe apprehensive is a better word.

“Stanley…” Ford whispers and his voice is rough and wondering. He looks as if he wants to say something but he chickens out halfway through and Stan lets him get away with it, it’s probably something better left till later anyhow. Ford gulps and averts his eyes, his hand letting Stan’s drop from his grasp.

Not one to live in silence when he can help it, Stan speaks; he still has a concussion to test for after all. “What year is it?”

Ford’s eyes immediately snap up to meet his and he looks terrified. “Stan, are you-”

Ah, Stan grits his teeth, he probably should’ve seen that reaction coming. He would roll his eyes but he’s a bit too tired to be amused by this age old song and dance, there’s only so many times a day a guy can be asked the same question without going a little crazy. “Is that _always_ going to be your answer when I ask a simple question, Sixer? And no, I’m fine, but just indulge me, would you?”

Ford sighs but lucky for the both of them decides to go along with it. “2016.” He answers and Stan side-eyes him, is Ford just fucking with him or…?

Stan places a hand on his hip and glares at Ford over the frames of his glasses. “Don’t be a jackass. Just answer the question.”

“2012.”  He amends with the tone of a scolded bratty child.

“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?” Stan teases, waving a finger at his twin. He mentally adds that to his assessment of Ford’s injuries. “Okay, what about this one; who’s the President of the United States?”

Ford frowns and rubs his hands together in front of the fire, he gives a thoughtful little hum. “…I don’t actually know.” He admits, sounding a little embarrassed. “I didn’t take the time to find out, and with Weirdmageddon and everything that happened I never really got to learn much about the changes within the last thirty years.”

“Fair enough.” Stan replies with an easy shrug, his voice nonchalant. “Still though, that explanation was a complete sentence so the good news is you probably don’t have a concussion.”

“And the bad news?” Ford asks, an elegant eyebrow arched above the frames of his glasses.

“Well, you’re stuck with me for one and two; our boat is currently imitating the Titanic and is busted to shit at the bottom of the ocean. Three; we’re stuck on an island that I’m betting gets about as much traffic as my bedroom does.”

Ford smirks. “And how much traffic exactly is that?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Stanley, that doesn’t sound like any kind of numerical value to me.” He teases. “Indulge me.” He parrots Stan’s words from earlier and damn, he should’ve known that would come to bite him in the ass. Turnabout is fair play and all that.

Part of him doesn’t want to answer simply because it’s embarrassing how little tail he’s gotten in the last thirty years, another part of him simply doesn’t know what to say. That part of him is all too aware of the fact they’ve already shared two heated kisses and that this conversation borders on the risqué. Things, if prodded enough, could take a turn for the disastrous and he’s not ready or prepared enough for another impromptu and morally skewed kiss. That’s still something they need to discuss, which is a hilarious thought given how many times he’s flip flopped back and forth between wanting to ignore it and actually wanting to talk about it.

He’s never really been a man of consistency when it comes to, he doesn’t want to say it, romance but it’s the only word that really comes to mind, as fucked up as that realisation is.

“More than a rural road but less than an interstate.” Is the only reply that Stan decides to grace that question with.

Stanford laughs, deep voice rattling around like the best thing Stan's heard in a long while. Actually he laughs more than Stan thinks his words probably warrant. Stan doesn’t say anything more but Ford continues to chuckle, hell; Stan would almost go as far as to say his brother is _giggling_.

Suddenly he knows a little about how it must have felt for Sixer to see him lose his shit and so he frowns and stares Poindexter in the face. His eyes aren’t on him, they’re fixated away from his gaze and he’s looking out onto the shore line. Stan's brows furrow further and he follows Ford’s line of sight.

The sun is high in the sky and it is probably noon by now, time having passed more quickly than they would’ve expected; hours gone in the blink of an eye. Land is too far away for him to even catch a glimpse of at this point and nothing humorous immediately jumps out at him but he shrugs, squints and decides to continue his inspection. His eyes go wide when he sees it; bobbing up and down on the shoreline is Sixer’s boot, the one he had lost during their scuffle.

A startled laugh tears through Stan’s throat and he feels moisture beading at the corners of his eyes, of all the crazy shit to survive the wreckage it _would_ be something of Stanford’s.

“Well, I’ll be _damned_.” He manages in between chuckles, and damn does it ever feel like the day is shaping up to be a huge dose of adrenaline filled hysteric humor and a bad case of emotional whiplash. Nevertheless though, maybe the day is starting to look up after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but oh well. 
> 
> If you guys ever want to talk about the fic or just in general I have a tumblr which can be found [here.](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

Their laughter dies down and all Ford can do is stare at his brother; he’s so close. His body, despite being still wet, is somehow warm and manages to radiate a heat even hotter than the fire sparking and crackling at their feet. His brother looks windswept and half drowned, he looks in some ways the most dangerous he has ever done so. Yet still unbelievably attractive to Ford’s eyes.

Ford’s mind can’t help but linger on what could’ve been, on how easily the crash could’ve killed either of them, had the island being any further out they would’ve died from exposure. He hates the pain that fills his chest at that, how his emotions bubble to the surface in an uncontrollable manner he barely manages to suppress.

The knowledge that they could’ve died weighs on him like the globe resting precariously atop Atlas’ shoulders. He could have so easily have lost his own life, he could have lost Stan; all it would’ve taken was one shrug from Atlas, all it would’ve taken was one moment of misfortune.

This simple truth makes his skin itch with the need to touch his brother, to grab him by his soggy hair and kiss him until Stan either punches him hard enough to break bone or kisses him back. Part of Ford is immensely glad he had only been half way conscious during Stan dutiful once over. Stan’s hands on him had been so gentle, his careful touch as intimate as any love making could ever be. It’s at times like these that Ford wishes he were a better man, a man immune to anger and grudges, a man kinder and less freakish in nature.

Despite the softer moments between them he is angry, he is beyond furious that their argument had escalated so far as to cause them to _crash on a deserted island_. He sighs and resolves to deal with that anger later; no good will come from an argument now and besides arguing is what had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

Ignoring all that is unresolved, what worries him most is that they have no immediate way of getting home and no way to contact those they had left behind. There is a certain danger in the air and Stanford detests it with all that he is.

It reminds him of his time on the other side of portal, but in this particular instance he’s reminded of a small dimension practically devoid of all life. That dimension had been a frozen wasteland only made worse by it’s odd adherence to Murphy’s Law, if Ford is being honest it’s a miracle he had made it out of that particular dimension; SRB9-23, without the loss of neither life nor limb. Although _technically_ he had lost a limb, but luckily for him he’d had experience with reattaching his own limbs at that point during in his travels.

This feeling of danger, however slight, unnerves him and part of him is already reaching for a gun that isn’t there, it has him reaching for one half of a set of twin daggers stored in the heel of his boot. There’s a reason he’d mourned his boot so keenly; he so dislikes when a pair is disrupted, there is a certain peace in evenness, a soothing factor to things coming in twos.  He imagines the daggers will come in handy whilst they try to acclimatize to, and later escape from, the island.

He remembers buying them from a small vendor in the Nebudalana region of SB1-Beta9. It had been an interesting region of space despite consisting mostly of sand, dust and having had a certain type of sun that could boil a person’s blood if too much direct exposure was achieved.

The daggers, from what he remembers of the sales pitch, had once belonged to a set of twin princesses who had been set to marry two men from kingdoms light years away from one another.  Both marriages would ensure neither would see the other again and so, as a going away present, they both gave the other a blade with the warning that, should things ever become too terrible away from each other, they would reunite in death.

He knows with almost certainty that the sale pitch had been an elaborate ruse to hook him in, but in truth he hadn’t bought the daggers for themselves; he had bought them for their story, however false it may have been. He had bought them out of sentiment, he’d bought them if only to remind himself of his own brother, separated by light years, dimensional planes and by a life lived as two halves instead of one cohesive and longed for whole.

He gets up and with shaking limbs he moves to grab the boot bobbing up and down along the shoreline. He grabs it and tips it to the side and the laughs that had dissipated quickly come flooding back when a mossy covered crab rolls out looking more than a little disgruntled.

He checks the heel and is immensely glad when the dagger slides out with ease.

“What the hell?” He hears his brother exclaim from the campfire. “Do I even _want_ to know what else you've got hidden up your sleeves, Poindexter?”

Ford shoots his brother a sharp grin perhaps a little too pointed and dark for polite company. “Probably not.” He replies, thinking mostly about that false tooth he has hiden inside his mouth; the one that hides a method of death so fast and discrete very few intergalactic agencies can cure it fast enough to be of any use.

“ _Please_ tell me at the very least you ain’t got a gun stored up your ass. I knew a guy once who used to put all kinds of weird shit up his ass to get out of being grabbed by like some form of security, ‘though he wasn’t very clear on what _kind_.”

Stan’s description of this odd man sparks something akin to recollection inside of Ford’s mind but he shakes his head and deems the possibility too unlikely, too improbable to even consider. “I assure you, as far as I am aware, I have nothing stored in my rectum.”

“Well, nothing except that huge stick up your ass, am I _right_?” Stan retorts, his voice teasing and his tone one of amusement. Ford simply rolls his eyes, it isn’t the first time he’s heard such remarks and he’s sure it won’t be the last.

Ford moves back to the fire but shivers slightly as a cold chill brushes over the island, it manifests as a gust of wind strong enough to send Stan’s teeth chattering. The chill sets his nerve endings on fire and Ford’s head throbs a little.

Sure his head is still sore but it has healed some since the initial moment of injury, the pain having dwindled as time has gone on. Ultimately he’s glad of his own enhanced ability to heal; a trait he gained from some alien technology and well applied scientific formulae. Said formula, in part, had a lot to do with the fact he had aged much better than his brother had.

He only vaguely remembers the recipe the alien scientist had used on him but he counts himself lucky for even being alive; he had been more than little lucky that it had been them that had fished him out from that mountainside waterfall made of orange mucous membrane. One of these days he’s going to write down what he remembers of that recipe and reverse engineer the rest from his own blood, if need be, and spike Stan’s food with the concoction.

Ford sighs and runs a hand over his face, his finger briefly pinching at the bridge of his nose. He eyes their makeshift camp and shakes his head. “This won’t do.” He says, gesturing with wide arms to their surroundings. “We should make a more suitable camp before nightfall takes us by surprise, the temperature may be decent now but it’ll reach freezing, I am sure, by the time the moon is high in the sky.”

Stan raises an eyebrow at Ford and smirks, his grin is crooked in a way that, had it been on anyone else’s face, he would’ve called it ‘leering’ and ‘intent’, but it’s Stanley so he simply settles on fond but mocking.  “You know, Ford, you could’ve just said ‘we’re gonna freeze our balls off later, let’s get our asses in gear’ and I would’ve understood that whole damn sentence a helluva lot quicker, Poindexter.”

Ford hums but immediately stops when his stomach makes an embarrassing growl that has Stan looking at him with amusement and an obvious joke ready to spring free, unfiltered, from his tongue. He decides to take the initiative and avoid any further embarrassment at his own expense, the conversation about his anal cavity still lingering in the air awkwardly. Ford coughs into his fist before placing his hands behind his back, he rocks on his heels just a little before finally speaking. “We also should consider what we’re going to do for food.”

Stan shrugs and waves a dismissive hand, he looks surprisingly nonchalant for a man about to say the following words. “Well, if we _really_ have to talk about it you have my express permission to eat my corpse if I snuff it.” Ford stares at him, expression aghast but Stan simply continues on unimpeded. “ _I mean_ if anyone should get eaten I’m like the best choice, got a lot of meat on these old bones.”

“ _No one_ is eating anyone.” Ford replies, sounding horrified, incredulous and darkly amused all at once. “And should I be concerned with how low you rank your chances of survival?”

Stan laughs and rubs the back of his neck, his fingers weaving with the hair that gathers there and Ford still can’t help the base satisfaction the sight brings him; he’s always preferred Stan with longer hair, something with a style more akin to his own. The more his brother looks like him, the more of a hold he has on him, or so his lizard brain likes to insist.

“I’m not ranking our chances low, Sixer, just trying to cover all our bases is all.” He pauses for a second and gives Ford an odd look, as if he’s contemplating his next course of action thoughtfully. However, not a second later, Ford sees another expression of Stan’s he knows all too well; the casual ‘fuck it I’m gonna say it’ expression, a look of which that has always proceeded many of Stan’s embarrassing and often _all_ of his more painful moments.

“And besides we both know you want a bite of this.” He says giving a sweeping gesture to his figure. “Don’t deny it, Sixer, I am _delicious._ ”

Ford sputters at that, his face tinging red.  The kisses linger between them, awkward and terrifying yet neither of them can decide on a course of action in regards to them. He had told Stan that the kisses had been a mistake, a terrible lapse in judgement on both their parts. Ford likes to believe his words had been true, but Stan’s motivations remain murky to him and the way he swings back and forth on the matter, his mind changing often enough to give Ford whiplash, is what confuses him the most.

He still doesn’t know _why_ Stan had kissed him on the deck, still doesn’t know the intricacies of his brother’s lapse in cohesive thought. He still doesn’t know if Stan’s mind is as clear and his memories as safe as Stan claims them to be.

Everything between them is…confusing. Does Stanley feel anything romantic, or sexual, for him? Or is it something more damning and unfortunate? Is it the unfortunate side effect of the odd codependency their bond with one another fosters between them? Or is it something more…sinister? Is it Stan memories…of _that_ time, his time after the science fair, popping up in his memories and causing confusion and odd behavior, long dormant, to resurface?

Or worse yet, do lingering traces of Bill exist within his mind? His past with Bill is a twisted web of complexity and manipulation, his history with Bill is more personal than he would ever like to admit. Bill had been very clever in his manipulations and schemes, he had wormed his way into Ford’s confidence with flattery, intellect and, to Ford’s shame, by mimicking some of Stanley’s more prevalent traits.

It’s embarrassing how easily he had fallen for the dream demon’s lies, how quickly he had succumbed to Bill in his lonely and awed state, how quickly odd fascination had become reluctant and confused attraction. It’s a part of his past he’s not particularly fond of recalling.

Not to say he hadn’t enjoyed his early days in Gravity Falls but he had been so lonely back then, his heart aching for his twin to be at his side whilst his head argued against him. He had simply pushed the feeling down and buried himself in his work, drowning himself in one obsession to wash away the other. In truth there had been a part of him that had enjoyed being without Stan or at the very least finally being free to explore who he was without his twin. Given all that he’s learnt about himself now he’s not quite sure he likes that man, if he had been a better man perhaps he never would’ve gotten into bed with Bill, literally and figuratively.

Ford remembers how he’d changed his life to suit Bill, how he had made his house a temple of worship dedicated to the demon. He remembers the statues, the triangle shaped windows, the incense and triangle shaped knickknacks. He remembers meditating for hours in hopes his ‘muse’ would give him even a moment of interaction, for in those days he had thought Bill magnificent and mighty, beautifully intangible and anomalous. Now? He’s terrified by the prospect of Stan’s mind playing host to Bill’s insanity.

Ford stands there stock still, his silence awkward and drawn out. Stan looks at him as if surprised by his own words, as if he hadn’t been intending to make Ford think of their kisses. In Stan’s defense he probably hadn’t even considered the kisses when making his joke.

Ford doesn’t know how to respond, all possible replies leave the door open for confrontation and heated arguments; the last thing either of them need right now. He simply looks away and twirls the dagger in his hand between all six of his fingers, he doesn’t miss the impressed expression that garners from his twin.

He reaches down, grabs the other dagger from his boot and hands it to his brother. “It’s getting late; we should gather some supplies before it gets dark.” He says before walking away, leaving his brother confused and somewhat weirded out as he sits there with a dagger sharp enough to kill a rock wraith from dimension BY-97Gan.

* * *

When Ford next comes back to the camp his top half is covered with blood and he has four white rabbits tied to the belt of his life jacket. Thrown over his shoulder is most of a tree, it’s branches dragging behind him and making marks on the ground beneath his feet.

When Ford next comes back to camp...it’s different than he remembers. Turns out Stan had used some of the wreckage from the Stan o’ War to make them a shelter for the night, the wooden structure rests just a little north from the shoreline. The shelter rests there hexagonal in shape and covered with a fair amount of leaves, a couple of support beams are buried in the ground to hold up the roof; despite how quick it had taken to build it looks surprisingly sturdy and well made, it makes Ford wonder, and not for the first time, about Stan’s past away from him.

Stan grins ear to ear when he sees Ford emerging from the woodland area that brackets the beach, he almost jumps up and down in excitement. “You got us grub, that’s great! For a moment there I really thought you might have to take me up on that whole cannibalism thing.”

“Ha ha.” Ford replies, rolling his eyes as he places the rabbit carcasses on piece of wood he recognizes as having been a part of the hull. “You seem to have been quite the busy bee whilst I was away.” He remarks, gesturing a hand towards Stan’s structure.

“If I’m a bee does that make you the queen?” Stan teases, his eyebrows are raised in a mischievous amusement and his voice is of a higher pitch and mocking; he’s more than likely teasing Ford for his more feminine traits and his prissier nature. Ford elects not to mention that in this scenario his brother would either be a female worker bee or a male drone only existing for reproduction, ultimately it’s probably a wise decision that he doesn’t say anything.

“Does this five-star establishment have a name?” Ford asks, eyeing Stanley’s hardwork with curiosity.

“I’m glad you asked, Sixer.” Stan replies with a smirk and confident wide armed gesture. “I call this wooden masterpiece the Stan o’ Shore.”

“I assume you’re referring to its location?”

Stan shoots him a left handed finger gun. “Got it in one, Poindexter, got it in one.” He pauses and eyes the rabbits with hunger. “I could skin two of them while you skin the others.” He offers with a shrug.

At that Ford cocks his head and looks at Stan with intrigue. “You know how to skin game?”

Stan throws his head back, laughs and grabs one of the smaller hares resting on the wood, dagger in his hand he raises his eyebrows at Ford pointedly. “You’d be surprised ‘bout the things I know, Sixer. Long story short I was on the run from some loan sharks back in ’79 so I went off grid in a small forest in Canada; once had to fight a moose with a rock and a sawed off table leg, _don’t even ask_.” He looks down at the partially skinned rabbit and pulls at the fur until it peels off, they both grimace as the flesh springs out from the fur and some blood drips to the floor.

Ford, however, is taking longer on his rabbit; his hands clumsy as his mind wonders, ever curious, about all the experiences he has never shared with Stan.

“What about you, Sixer? Where’d you learn; the Portal?” Stan asks, trying to keep his tone casual but Ford can hear the almost unbearable amount of curiosity bubbling inside of his twin.

Ford’s hands slice into skin, flesh and fur as he thinks for a moment. He smiles and shakes his head. “Surprising as it may seem I didn’t learn that whilst on the other side of the Portal, I actually learned how to hunt during a rather disastrous expedition into the deeper parts of the Gravity Falls forest.”

Stan frowns thoughtfully, grabs the second rabbit and levels Ford with a crooked grin and a raised eyebrow. “I’m sensing a story here.” Stan remarks, waving the dagger in Ford’s direction to point at him. If Stanley had been anyone else Ford probably would’ve moved to disarm him just for that, but luckily for the two of them Ford trusts Stanley enough to override some of his more subconscious of behaviors.

Ford shrugs and straightens his glasses with one hand whilst the other is working on his second rabbit. “I wouldn’t call it so much a story as a brief tale in ‘how _not_ to study the paranormal.’”

Stan chuckles. “Now I _have_ to hear it!”

Ford groans, already anticipating the embarrassment that always comes with this particular story. He remembers Fiddleford asking to hear it back when he had been Ford’s assistant. At the thought of his old friend Ford bites his lip; he makes a mental note to make more of an effort to retain some level of communication with the man whose life he had so thoroughly ruined. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Well, so was that time I puked on Esther Johnson but I told you about that!”

Ford sighs, finished with both of his rabbits he stabs the dagger into the wood with ease. “Alright, alright.” He concedes and Stan grins looking self-satisfied. “It was back in the winter of 1978 and I was in the midst of my obsession with Gravity Falls but more prevalently; my obsession with what resides underneath that of a gnome’s hat.”

Stan smiles at that, obviously trying not to chuckle a little. “Yeah, read about that in your Journals, Sixer. I think there was something about you almost losing a finger?”

Ford’s cheeks colour a little and he coughs into his fist. “Ah, never mind that.”

“Uh? I very much _mind_ that, Ford! I mean you almost lost a _finger_!”

Ford makes a wide armed gesture of embarrassed annoyance. “It hardly matters seeing as I _didn’t_ lose a finger; it’s all about _perspective_ , Stanley.”

Stanley hisses and shakes his head in incredulity “Oh my god, I will ‘perspective’ _you_ in a minute, Jesus!” He pauses only to shake his head again, this time harder. “I can’t even believe, I can’t, just.” He mumbles underneath his breath, words jumbling and meaning scattered with just how aghast he is at Ford’s casual dismissal of almost losing an appendage.

“Anyway.” Ford begins. “Would you still like to hear my story?”

Stan crosses his arms over his chest and levels Ford with a partial glare, but it isn’t long before a grin is threatening to curl upon his lips. “I will _literally_ kick your ass if you don’t tell me. That enthusiastic enough for you, Poindexter?”

“You could probably do with more pleading and trying to appease me, but it’ll do for now I suppose.” Ford quips, shooting his brother a lopsided grin not unlike that of Stan’s. He coughs into his fist again, clearing his throat as he begins to continue his tale. “Where was I? Ah! It was winter 1978 and I had just ventured into a part of the forest very few had dared to travel. So few had traveled there that there weren’t even any concise maps on the area; naturally I sought to remedy that whilst there, but that isn’t important until later. In any case I went in search of the gnome colony, hoping that I could trap one and learn its secrets.”

“And naturally when it comes to us Pines’ something went wrong.” Stan remarks as if he had been there himself, Ford rolls his eyes but nods in agreement.

“I had only been planning to be there for an hour or two at most, but I got carried away in my enthusiasm and the storm that had been forecast for the day after came early and forced me to find shelter.”

Stan shifts in his makeshift seat, a rock, and leans forwards; intently hung on Ford’s every word. Ford grins at that, pleased to have Stan so captivated by his tale. “I fled to the nearest cave and waited for the storm to abate but by the time it did I had no idea where I was; I had become irrevocably lost and any trail I had left through the forest had been covered by the falling snow.”

“This is where the whole ‘mapping shit down’ comes in handy, yeah?”

Ford places a finger to his mouth and shushes Stanley like a misbehaving child. Ford smiles despite the interruption; he’s enjoying this more than he thought he would. It’s been a while since he’s had a willing audience to share his more harrowing of experiences with, not to say Dipper and Mabel hadn’t been a good enough audience but he had always been wary of what was suitable enough to tell them. “You are correct, but don’t spoil the story, Stanley.”

Stanley scoffs at the admonishment but leans further forward, signaling with his left hand for his brother to continue.

“The storm came and went in a back and forth cycle of volatility, the weather was unpredictable for at least two days and naturally I grew hungry. I still had with me the traps I had intended for the gnomes but through a process of trial and error I managed to catch myself a couple of rabbits…the skinning was unpleasant but I got the hang of it quick enough, hunger being a good incentive to learn. On the fifth day the weather had cleared up enough for me to use my makeshift map to get home.”

“I think I learned a valuable lesson from that story.”

Ford frowns in thought and looks at Stan questioningly, preparing himself for the guaranteed mocking his brother clearly has in store for him. “And that is…?”

“Not to go gallivanting out in the forest when I know a storm is on the way, for one. I mean _really_ , Sixer, what were you _thinking_?” He asks, an eyebrow quirked pointedly.

Ford shuffles a little awkwardly, not really having a defense for his, admittedly ridiculous, behavior. “If you must know I, uh, well I _wasn’t_. Thinking, that is.”

Stan’s eyes widen beyond compare, he doesn’t blink for almost twenty seconds before breaking into a series of laughs so hard and so loud that they could potentially start an earthquake, about a seven on the Richter scale if Ford had to guess. “Can I have that in _writing_? Otherwise no one will believe that the all-knowing _Author_ ever said that, hah!”

Ford shakes his head, incredulous but amused. “I’ll be sure to send you it in the mail.”

Stan grins and punches Ford in the arm good naturedly. “That might be a little hard seeing as neither of us know this piece of shit Island’s zip code and all.”

Ford chuckles and hits him back.

After that they continue on with preparing the rabbits, together they build a spit over the campfire. It doesn’t take long for the delicious smell of roasting meat to fill the area and their nostrils, they eat in relative silence except for the occasional piece of conversation.

“It’s getting late.” Stan remarks, squinting up at the retreating sun.

Ford nods in response and places the rabbits' bones to the side; he has plans for them later. “We should head to sleep.” He advises. “The earlier we rise the more daylight we will have to plan how we’re going to escape from this accursed rock.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Stan replies with a shrug. “If you suggest a raft as an option I will kick you in the balls though, a raft _never_ ends well; trust me on that, I would _know_.”

A part of Ford desperately wants to ask about that but instead he decides to ready their sleeping area. Stan is busy and is sitting to Ford’s side, he’s already finishing up a project he had set for himself after having skinned the rabbits; sewing their fur together for something more substantial.

Stan had managed to make a makeshift type of string from a sturdy nearby plant, as of yet the pelt is not long enough as to be useful but it has potential, with a couple more pelts it could easily become a pretty good blanket. Ford takes a moment to be impressed by Stan’s varied survival knowledge.

“That’s quite good.” He praises. “Where you’d learn to sew?”

Stan frowns and blinks up at him oddly, he sighs and looks away awkwardly. “Ma.” Is all he says before putting his project to the side and climbing into their shelter.

Ford gulps and chastises himself for having not known that fact about their childhood. “When did she teach you…?” He questions, voice low as he squeezes himself inside the small space. His brother is to his side, body turned in the opposite direction.

Ford can hear his brother breathing against him, even as the sound of waves crashing against the rocks echoes in the air. “It was during that one winter, the one when you had that really high fever, remember?”

“You got better before me, but the doctor said they shouldn’t send you back to school; just in case you caught it again or you spread it to our classmates.” Ford continues for him, vaguely remembering that horrible week of bedrest. There are very few things he can recall from that time but he does remember odd fever dreams, a wet towel pressed against his forehead and a small hand holding his own.

“Yeah.” Stan agrees. “You weren’t doing so hot and I was so _bored_ , so Mom sat me on her lap and taught me how to sew. I remember moaning about it, you know? I remember sayin’ it was girly. She looked me right in the eye and told me ‘girly’ was just short hand for ‘useful’. Spent the next three days sewing up the holes in my socks, hah, never forgot how to sew after that, got a little rusty sure but I never forgot.”

 “…I never knew about that.”

Stan chuckles at that, his voice a little bitter, a little defeated but mostly just a bone deep kind of tired. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

Ford opens his mouth, ready to ask what his brother means exactly but Stan continues.

“You know those gloves I got you for our sixteenth? Made ‘em myself.” He tells him. “You really think it’s easy to find six fingered gloves, Poindexter?” He asks simply, his voice having lost the bitterness of before. The question is mostly rhetorical.

Ford suddenly feels the urge to turn over and face his brother, to get Stan to do the same. He wishes he could see Stan for this conversation, he wishes he could take back his thoughtlessness from years long past. He wishes he hadn’t been so oblivious and disregarding of Stan’s affection, he wishes a lot of things were different, that he had been better, that he still has the capacity _to_ _be_ better to his brother.

Instead of turning to face his brother he sighs, yawns half way through the action, and squeezes his eyes tight. “Goodnight, Stanley.” He says, voice barely above a whisper.

From his side a tired, yet somehow sweet, voice replies. “Sleep tight, Sixer.”


	5. Chapter 5

Stan wakes up slow as molasses, his mind is still half asleep and dreams of summers in the future and images of adventures yet to be linger in his mind’s eye, tempting and comforting all at once. The exact nature of his dreams elude him, but he’s only half awake and he’s ready to fall back into the welcome embrace of unconsciousness at any moment.

His body feels tingly, like his whole form is one big limb he’s slept on for too long. He feels almost paralyzed and like he’s floating all at once. His body feels warm and cocooned in a way that feels like some semblance of safety and comfort, he can feel sunlight caressing his face and a salty, chilled breeze nipping at his nose.

His mind is dazed by sleep even as his eyelashes flutter lightly as he presses his face into a warm surface that feels _great_ against his skin. So great in fact that Stan makes a small groan in the back of his throat, he hasn’t felt this comfortable in fuck knows how long and damn if he gets his way he never wants to move again.

He makes another noise this time this one is more guttural and low and to muffle it he nuzzles down into whatever the fuck is acting as his personal cuddle toy.  This groan vibrates throughout his body and has him taking a sharp gasp that has him moaning for an entirely _different_ reason instead of just out of the sweet comfort of a full night’s sleep. Despite his age he can feel himself hardening inside his underwear and his boxer clad length brushes against something that is both hard and uncompromising, yet soft and smooth at the same time.

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten off, since he’s released any tension, so to speak. Spending the majority of his time on a boat with his brother, in the middle of sea no less, isn’t exactly what Stan would call helpful to a guy’s sex life, or lack thereof since a good old solo session isn’t anywhere near actually getting laid.

The sensation of having something soft, but solid, to rub up against has him white knuckling as he grips the wooden base of whatever he’s resting on. This feeling of warmth sends sweat dripping down his brow and has him leaning in closer to that source of cozy security. It’s just instinct he’s giving into when he makes several small thrusts, just instinct he’s obeying when he rocks his hips enough that he can feel himself growing harder and thicker with each teasing brush against his morning wood.

Gradually as his breath becomes more erratic he becomes more awake and awareness slowly dawns on him. It doesn’t take long for him to realise that what he’s thrusting against is warm, marked up skin, but more importantly that it’s his _brother_ that he’s humping like an overgrown dog.

His eyes snap open just as his hips swivel a final time, he bites his lip to keep from waking Ford even as pleasure crashes over him like a wave, settles in his stomach until his dick twitches and he soaks the inside of his boxers. He inches away from Ford and prays to whatever fucking deity that’s out there that he hasn’t woken his brother up, desperately he hopes that Ford had not felt his thrusts and the wet patch that Stan’s crotch has now become.

Several minutes pass in fearful silence as Stan waits for the other shoe to drop, but nothing happens. Ford simply remains asleep, snoring lightly as if his brother _hadn’t_ just stained his own pants in come right next to him.

Stan tip toes out of their shelter as best as he can, trying not to nudge Sixer in the ribs or accidentally elbow him in the face like he remembers having done in the brief times they ever shared a bed as a kid.  

Somehow he manages to make it out without fucking up entirely, small mercy that it is.

He rubs his eyes as he exits the shelter and enters the great outdoors. It’s still dark out and looks like it will be for a least an hour or two yet, Stan’s still tired and the dark does nothing to pull him from his restless and tired state.

He feels like a fucking creep, what kind of sicko fucks against his brother’s ass? _Him_ apparently, although you could say being half asleep is as good an excuse as any, but it’s a small comfort that does very little to calm his racing heart and make him feel any better.

What the fuck would he have done had Ford woken up midway through? They already have a lot of awkward shit to discuss, the fucking kisses for one linger on his mind like half chewed gum on some poor kid’s hair. They stick to the back of his eyelids each time that he thinks about them, playing back in technicolor and goddamn surround sound, every movement and breath amplified to the point of overwhelming his senses.

And now he’s gone and fucking came in his own pants whilst humping his brother like some horny dog. It’s not like he’d been awake to notice Ford’s presence, well he _had_ been awake enough to know someone was beside him, but it’s not like his brain had rebooted enough to remember the exact identity of that person. Sometimes his body is still used to having fucked somebody the night before, even if it’s been thirty years since he last had to whip a dick out just to afford a shitty meal from the nearest dinner in whatever shithole town he’d wandered into.

But as much as Stan would like to deny, avoid, maybe even murder, the elephant in the room. He’s not stupid; he can see this weird ass pattern forming between the two of them, and as much as he’s been trying to ignore it there’s been…tension and not their usual kind. It’s not the tension of two brothers who wanted to give the other a knuckle sandwich…it’s something _else_ , something heady and brimming with salient energy that sparks between them periodically.

It’s the kind of energy that has him clenching his fist and licking his lips in confusion at times. He knows Ford can feel it too, heck he’s the one that started this whole mess to begin with, he’s the one that got in his space and kissed him the first time. He’s the one that made this whole mess snowball out of proportion, but now they’re far away from home stuck on a damn deserted island and now what once a problem is now an avalanche of issues ready to suffocate the both of them.

Stan shakes his head, now is not the time to be thinking about weird shit like that. Not that there’s ever a _right_ time to talk this kind of shit out. Stan spares Ford a look as he grabs the dagger Ford gave him from near the Stan o’ Shore.

It’s been a while since he’s actually seen Ford sleeping peacefully, even longer since Ford’s been deep enough in REM for Stan to get close enough to smell his sweat and musk without Ford cracking an eye open to look up at him with exasperated fondness. But Ford just lies there, motionless save for his chest rising and falling as he breathes. It’s odd to see him so still and…defenseless almost, and Stan bites his lip at the thought because he _had_ just used Ford for his own pleasure after all.

He hears Ford mumble something in his sleep and his gaze, without his consent, fucking zeros in on Ford’s dry lips. They’re chapped, but that’s to be expected, still they’re _Ford’s lips_ and they’ve always been strikingly soft to Stan; heck, it actually been something he’d teased him about in their teens how Ford had had lips soft enough to be a girl and cheeks that couldn’t grow facial hair to save his life.

But now? Now Ford’s face has that bare hint of facial hair that comes with not having shaved for a while and to Stan…he looks _good_ , masculine, rough in all the right ways and god he knows how it feels to have that stubble brush against his cheek now, _he knows._ It was only two days ago he, like the fucking idiot he is, kissed his brother for a second time and god that time, _that fucking time_ , he didn’t have amnesia as an excuse for having freaking _loved_ the whole thing.

He remembers how Ford looked at him too, fear and, he doesn’t want to call it _desire_ but it fucking was and he knows it, flashing in his eyes like a warning sign issued far too late and god dammit Stan had been too fucked up, scared and in need of something, _anything_ , to keep him safe and present in that moment for him to heed anything as flimsy as a warning.

Ford licks his lips in his sleep and for a moment all Stan can think about is leaning closer and wetting them himself, pushing his tongue inside and waking Ford up that way, he’s already fucking come on him already, why _not_ kiss him at this point? If anything it’s the less shitty than what he’s already done.

When he turns away he’s embarrassed to admit his face is redder than the blood blooming on the tip of tongue from just how hard he’s been biting down on his own lip to keep from saying, or doing, something he’s knows he’s going to regret.

He grips the dagger harder in his right hand and curses himself for thinking such weird shit lately, he swears it had never been like this before, sure maybe he’d had more than a couple of weird sex dreams as a teen but that happens to everyone! And sure maybe that isn’t an excuse for some of the racier dreams he had whilst working on the portal, but there’s something to be said for the symbolism of dreams and plausible deniability.

Besides who’s to say that these weird ass feelings and…thoughts are even his own? Sixer already told him a little about the damn triangle and how they’d been a ‘thing’ back then, how Ford had believed himself in love with that isosceles asshole. Maybe whatever the fuck is going on with him is just a leftover piece of that asshole trying to get the last laugh, or some shit like that.

Still, Stan can’t help but get pissed off at the idea of that little bastard using his brain space to mess with his brother, to fucking _kiss_ his brother with Stan’s own mouth. It’s Stan’s body for god’s sake if his body is actually gonna put the moves on Sixer it’s gonna be because he damn well wants to and not because some shape wants a piece of his brother’s ass. Not that he _actually_ wants to put the moves on Sixer, right?

It’s just, he’s not, he’s not like _that_ and besides he’s not the one doing this, he _can’t be_ and even if it were Bill pulling the strings then it really shouldn’t make Stanley feel…weird. It should make him feel angry as fuck not… _jealous_ that the first time he ever kissed Ford was potentially because someone else wanted him to.

There’s no point dwelling on it now though, there’s nothing he can do about it now except maybe bring up his worries about Bill once Ford awakens, but that doesn’t appear to be happening any time soon. Stan sighs, eyes the sun only barely beginning to rise and decides that he might as well use this time to get breakfast ready whilst Princess Unattainabelle over there gets his beauty sleep.

* * *

Ford wakes up about an hour later whilst Stan is skinning one of his most recent kills. Ford scrunches up his nose at the smell even as he brushes a hand through his messy fly away hair, he yawns and Stan smiles as Ford rubs his eyes and comes closer to the camp fire.

“How’d that coma treat ya, Sixer?” Stan remarks eyeing his brother with a smirk whilst he slices through rabbit flesh without even once looking at it, he’s not going to lie although he’s still rusty at all this survivalist shit he’s still go skills coming out of his ass.

Ford groans, shrugs all noncommittal and moody as he finally sits his ass down on that fire hazard of a log near that little ramshackle camp of theirs. “Did it rain in the middle of the night?”

Stan frowns at Ford’s query and stops midway through skinning his second rabbit. “Nope, been mostly blue and grey skies for what it’s worth. Why?”

“Curious.” Ford mumbles to himself. “The ground must have been damp.”

Stan stops immediately, eyes widening and the tips of his ears turning red as he realises the implications of what Ford has just casually mumbled. Ford’s, _his_ , dagger nearly flies out of his hand as he tries not to run away or reach for a smoke bomb that isn’t there. “Y-yeah, must’ve just been damp ground, ah uh come to think of it my pants were a bit soggy too, haha.”

At that Ford just looks at him oddly, eyes narrow as he clearly tries to decipher the mystery that is his brother’s current behavior.

“So, uh, any cool dreams, Poindexter?” Stan asks, if only to distract from the heat flooding his face and the embarrassment making a home inside his chest, even guilt nips at his heels desperate to let itself to be known to the man that he has unintentionally wronged.

“…I did have some dreams, but ah, they weren’t exactly what I would call pleasant.”

Ford’s words feel like a bucket of ice being firmly flung at him, he’d thought his brother had slept peacefully, but clearly fate had had other plans for his twin. “You, uh, you wanna talk about it, Sixer…?”

“I had a dream that Bill was still alive and that this, us being stuck in this god forsaken wasteland, was all an elaborate plot on his part. Something planned and enacted just so that he can watch us squirm before he truly does away with us for good.”

Stanley gulps as Ford speaks, his words striking a chord with Stan. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, like he hasn’t considered the possibility of Bill still being alive in his mind and manipulating shit. Fuck, it wouldn’t even surprise him if ‘accidentally’ getting shipwrecked wasn’t just one piece of some bigger plan. Heck, what if everything leading up to them being here had been based on Bill and his puppeteering…but that still doesn’t explain Ford kissing him back when he’d lost his memory.

Stan wants to tell Ford that his dream is complete bullshit, that Bill can’t do nothing to either of them. He wants to reassure him a little, put him at ease or some shit like that, but the words die in his throat before even reaching infancy. Instead, like Stan often does, he says exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

“Bill couldn’t have crashed the ship; I mean it was kinda your fault we fucked off overboard in the first place.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he knows, he can feel it in his damn bones, that he’s going to end up regretting them, even if they are true.

At Stanley’s stupid remark Ford’s eyes immediately narrow and his shoulders suddenly square. “What do you mean ‘my fault’? As I recall it was _you_ who threw the first punch.” And there his brother goes again, voice taking on that classic aristocratic lilt of his as he clearly ignores his own share of the blame.

Stan can feel his temper flaring up at that, can feel the anger he had buried in favor of caring for Ford rising back up and making its way into his mouth.  “I warned you fair and square, Poindexter, that I’d sock you in the face if ya didn’t give me a little goddamn space. You’re the one that didn’t listen.” Although he doesn’t say it the implied ‘like always’ echoes around them like a gunshot, strengthening the growing tension blossoming between them.

“Well, perhaps we might not have come to blows had you not been so… _unwilling_ to discuss things of relevancy with me.”

Stan rolls his eyes angrily and does his best not to fuck up the pelt he’s working on removing from the rabbit he had been intending to cook for Ford as breakfast, but as if he’s going to go to that kind of effort now given how fucking stubborn his brother is being. Fuck, he can’t even admit that his own god damn pushy nature had been what caused Stan to punch him in that freaking snooty face of his.

“In addition.” Ford begins, resting a hand atop his hip. “Your stubborn disregard of my feelings on the matter really did neither of us any favors.”

That does it for Stan because within seconds he’s driving the dagger harshly into the hard surface of some of the driftwood that had once been a part of their boat. The dagger lies upright and neglected as Stan rises from where he had been crouched on the ground to glare at his brother.

“Stubborn? I’m stubborn _?_ ” He asks, angry and aghast all at once. “ _I’m stubborn?_ ” He repeats looking at Ford with blatant bewilderment. “How the fuck can you say I’m stubborn! Even if this were all my fucking fault in the first place, even if the shipwreck was just me being a useless asshole again then you gotta at least own your part of the blame in this.”

Ford looks at him in confusion, as if he can’t fathom a single reason for him being to blame, a single instance where he was in fact in the wrong. Stan waves an irritated hand in Ford’s general direction, index finger pointing at him accusingly. “It all goes back to that damn kiss in the woods! We _both_ know that’s the _real_ elephant in the room here.”

Ford is silent after that, his eyes wider than Stan’s seen them in years and his hand is shaking where it’s resting against his side. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, he looks almost scared as Stan stalks towards him.

“Stanley…” Ford begins in a whisper, Stan can really see that his words have Ford on the ropes, unable to even argue against him. In any other situation he might’ve enjoyed rendering his smartass brother speechless, but now? It only irritated him further, Ford couldn’t even handle giving him a half-assed excuse, wasn’t even trying to think of one by the looks of things.

“I’ve been tryin’ to forget about it, but fucking Christ, Ford, clearly it’s not gonna happen. Yeah I was being a dick on the boat, I admit that, Sixer, I own that, but you had to pick the most fuck ass backward moment ever to talk about it, you know? But fuck, it’s not gonna go away whatever the fuck is going on with us and the only way we’re gonna actually be able to get off this piece of shit rock is to work together, goddammit.” He growls to himself and scuffs the ground with the tip of his shoe, kicking a random pebble and sending it flying towards the ocean’s waves.

He points a finger at Ford again, this time it digs into his brother’s chest angrily. “That ain’t gonna happen when I keep thinking you’re gonna plant one on me when I’m not payin’ attention! Heck, sometimes I’m wondering if it’s _me_ I should be worrying about, if I’m gonna be the one that ends up cavin’ into this fucking tension and just-”

Ford’s eyes dilate a little at that, his gaze trailing down to look at Stan’s finger and just how close they are now. It’s not like Stan intended for them to be close enough to feel each other breathing or to brush chests or some shit like that, but he’s always been a physical person and when it comes to Ford there’s never been any concept of putting boundaries between them. And besides putting distance between them has always ended so _well_ in the past, hasn’t it?

“ _Just_ …?” Ford questions, he’s firmly fixated on the way Stan’s angrily chewing on his own lip; the one that Ford split during their fight on the boat.

Stan groans and gesticulates wildly, his arms shrugging and his hands facing skyward before coming back down to push at Ford’s chest heatedly. “Nothing, it’s just. It’s fucking nothing, okay?!”

Ford looks at him, eyes serious and Stan’s taken aback when Ford’s hand wraps around Stan’s wrist. “Stanley.” He begins, voice rough and foreboding. “I’d advise, for your own benefit, that you stop touching me.”

Stan bristles at Ford’s obvious warning, but all he can think of his pushing his luck, of making Ford the uncomfortable and defensive sibling for a change. Stan’s never liked being told what do and this time is no exception.  

He moves in closer, jabbing at Ford’s chest again even though Ford’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist, he can feel those six fingers shifting as he raises his eyebrow mockingly and eyes his brother with an unkind sneer. “Oh really? What ya gonna do, Poindexter? Stab me with your little…knife.”

“Stanley.” Ford says again, this time his voice is but a low and husky growl and Stan has no time to act before he’s being grabbed by the back of his head and pulled into a kiss that he really should’ve seen coming. It’s not like he hasn’t been goading Ford into it, it isn’t like he didn’t know what he was getting himself into, but still he’d done it anyway.

His stupid fucking pride is what’s got him into this mess, and this time he doesn’t have his memory going to shit as an excuse for the fact he practically fucking leaning into the touch. He can feel Ford’s stubble brushing against cheek, he can smell the sweat pouring off of Ford’s body and the scent of salt lingering on his skin. He smells like the sea given physical form, and god isn’t that just a fucking _perfect_ comparison? One-minute Ford’s calm as fuck, but then the next he’s going all tempestuous and unpredictable and shit; like now for instance since he’s already got his tongue down his throat.

If Stan had been a reasonable, and _sane_ , adult he probably would’ve backed the fuck up by now, maybe kneed Ford in the balls and swam back home if he had to. But Stan’s never been reasonable or sane for that matter, and so he finds himself diving forward and raising his hand to grasp at Ford’s chin and pull him in just that little bit closer.

Kissing Ford is like making love to a light socket; sparks everywhere. He feels like his skin’s going numb, like someone lit a fire inside of his chest and it’s threatening to burn him alive, even as his teeth dig into Ford’s bottom lip.

He can hear Ford breathing harshly through his nose as he runs a frantic hand through Stan’s hair, as if he’s desperate to keep a hold of him, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go for just one second Stan will just disappear never to be seen again.

Stan scoffs internally at the thought; if anything _Stan_ should be the one afraid of losing Ford, because that always how it’s been between them; he always leaves him just when things are starting to look up, he’s almost like the sun on a rainy day, he’s never there when he needs him.

If anything this thought causes Stan to grab at Ford’s clothes, his hand fisting in Ford’s jacket and by this point it’s less like they're kissing and more like they’re trying to fuse back together after having split apart before birth.

Stan’s already come once today and goddammit he’s still tired after having not had enough sleep, but he can feel his body flushing red and, hah, his own ‘little’ knife is starting to take a little interest now too. This whole thing is fucked up, the kind of fucked up that would put him on more government watch lists than he already is, but goddammit he’s enjoying this despite himself.

Ford had probably intended this kiss as punishment, as something to push him away and create distance between them, but Stan’s had a lifetime of distance to contend with and he’s sick of being pushed away, of _pushing_ Ford away himself. He’s sick of being an idiot, sick of lying to himself about the things he would rather not think about. This isn’t normal, this isn’t even legal, but has Stan ever been either of these things?  He’s never been one to follow the rules, never been one to listen to reason, Stan’s always just been instinct, emotion and pure physicality; all things, as it turns out, that Ford enjoys when kissing.

Stan can tell Ford’s, hah, _enjoying_ himself when his hand slides down Ford’s back and pulls him closer with a groping hand resting on Ford’s, slightly damp, ass. He won’t lie a thrill shoots through him at that, it’s dirty and wrong remembering how he came on Ford whilst he was asleep…but being able to feel the evidence of that? Fuck, it’s dirty as shit but it gets his motor going, and besides it’s not like he claimed to have standards, is it?

He can tell Ford’s loving his touches because he bucks further into his grip and moans loud enough to alert the coast guard two hundred or so miles away. But all good things come to an end and this kiss, if you can even call it something as tame as that, does when Ford pulls away to breath heavily into Stan’s neck.

Ford lifts his head back up to look at him and Stan’s the one that’s trapped this time, that kiss was the shovel from which he’s dug his own damn grave and he has no excuse for it, no way of lying through his teeth.

There’s no way to deny having enjoyed that kiss, no way to deny having goaded Ford into it. All that’s left is the unavoidable truth that he’d much rather repress and pretend didn’t exist, but he knows he can’t have his cake and eat it; he’s not stupid enough to think Ford would let him pull this shit and then get away with denying it afterwards.

“F-fuck, I, I can’t believe I did that.” Stan mumbles dumbly to himself.

Ford shifts in his grip and looks at him intently, eyes assessing as he watches Stan berating himself. Stan can see Ford fiddling with his hands, evidently nervous as he readies himself to speak, but Stan doesn’t know if he wants to hear those words, doesn’t know if he could handle them.

“Stanley…do you…?”

Stanley gulps, averts his eyes from Ford’s gaze and prepares himself for the question that he knows that will change their lives.

In the corner of Stan’s eye Ford stands up straighter, his voice sounding more confident and less wary. He sounds like he’s sure of Stan’s answer before Stan has even opened his mouth. “Are you attracted to me, Stanley?”

Is he attracted to Ford, is he _really_? His body sure as hell thinks he is and god his mind, what does his mind have to say on the matter? His brain is worried about being caught, not by the cops or some shit like that, no, but by the people that actually _matter_ in his life; like Dipper and Mabel for example. For once he has people he desperately doesn’t want to let down, people he knows that don’t look up to him, per-se, but still watch his choices with consideration.

Fuck, maybe he does want Ford, maybe he’s always wanted Ford and has just been trying to deny it, to repress it and bury it down the sofa cushions of his mind.

Clearly Ford wants him, that’s just something Ford can’t hope to hide anymore, maybe one kiss he could’ve gotten anyway with, but two? Nope, nah, nuh huh, no way is Stan gonna be taken for a sucker; his brother wants a piece of his ass, heck probably even the whole thing, and there’s no way Ford can pretend he doesn’t.

And Stan…Stan wants Ford, wants his touch, wants to kiss him again, and god fucking dammit he even wants the sappy bullshit too. He knows the last part can’t possibly be Bill’s influence, can’t possibly be Bill’s own ‘feelings’ if, however unlikely as it is, that the triangle is still alive inside his mind and still has a grip on him. Bill never had feelings for Ford, that’s a fact, and so Stan knows without a shadow of a doubt that it’s him, him entirely, feeling what he does for Ford. There’s no way to con his way out of this…and maybe he doesn’t really want to, maybe he’s just been waiting for this moment. Maybe it was always supposed to go this way, maybe he was always supposed to want Ford, and maybe this was always how it was supposed to be.

“I, fuck, I don’t want to be, but maybe? Dammit, who am I kidding? I’m attracted to you like a goddamn magnet, or like a soccer player to a hot blonde cheerleader.”

For the first time since Ford woke up he laughs, loud, long and with such fervor that Stan can’t help but to nervously smile too, he can practically feel the tension melting away from his shoulders and maybe whatever’s between doesn’t have to ruin what they have.

Suddenly the nervousness returns as he realises Ford hasn’t even confirmed his own feelings. Here his brother is asking him about _his_ feelings, but is being as quiet as a nun in a ball gag about his own feelings.

He knows Ford’s got a hard on for him, but is that…it? He’s never really thought of Ford as someone itching to pursue a fuck buddies situation, Ford’s always seemed like more of a romantic than anything else. Although there’s that whole thing with Bill, though, he knows Ford had had feelings for him, but the exact nature of those feelings is still a little vague in Stan’s mind’s eyes.

And Stan, as always, when he’s insecure and nervous turns on the bravado. “And obviously you want a piece of this-” He wiggles his eyebrows and gestures to himself. “-fine ass. I mean honestly? I’d surprised if you _didn’t_ want to fuck me through the mattress!”

Ford chuckles at that a little, his face a little red.  “Ah, well, I. Yes, that is to say that; yes I am attracted to you and have been for ah… _longer_ than I would care to admit.”

“Meaning you’ve wanted my ass for as long as I’ve _had_ an ass, right?” Stan jokes, but is surprised to see Ford clam up a little at that. Damn, Stan’s always had a way of hitting the nail right on the head in regards to Ford before, but this is just too much for him.

Stan laughs as Ford does his best to look bashful.

“That...isn’t entirely inaccurate.” Ford remarks, a finger rubbing embarrassedly at his face.

“Wow, so you-” Stan gestures wildly like an idiot, trying to form words that just aren’t cooperating with him.  “-uh, wanted a piece of the Stanley pie back when I had the mullet? I mean there’s no accounting for taste but-”

Ford coughs into his own fist and shuffles on his feet. “A tad farther back than that actually.”

Stanley raises an eyebrow, expression one of surprise and a bit aghast. Really Ford? Really? He’d wanted him back when he’d being using that tacky hair gel? Back when his face had been a breeding ground for acne; honestly he can’t imagine _anyone_ having had the hots for him back then, let alone his geeky twin brother. “You mean back when I was going for that greasy jock look? With the slicked back hair and the bee sting acne bullshit? _Really?_ ”

Ford smiles and gazes fondly at Stan with a look that has Stan’s heart jumping up to rest in his throat. “I found your personality and exuberance…charming.”

Stan opens his mouth to make a witty retort, but an odd sound sweeps across the camp startling the two of them from their brief domesticity. The noise rings out a second time and Stan finally recognizes it as something resembling a dolphin.

The two of them squint and look in the direction the noise came from and bobbing along the shoreline sure enough is a dark skinned kid, with a fucking fishtail attached to his torso, wearing a very familiar beanie.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a long time coming! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! I'd also like to take this time to thank my friends; the amazing busmall and the dorky but delightful sintillates for providing me with much needed beta-ing and reassurance that this chapter wasn't terrible! Thank you guys for your hard work, patience with me and your much needed support! <3

As Ford looks towards the shore he feels anxiety overcome him, tension setting in as he squares his shoulders and holds himself unnaturally still. He’s been in his fair share of deadly situations, and some habits die harder than others, he realises as his hand immediately reaches out for his dagger.

Perhaps his reaction is premature, but when he finally does glance at the newcomer among them there is only one word in his vocabulary that springs to mind with any kind of relevance: worrisome. It’s not a word he has had much experience with, his time in the portal being either oddly pleasant or decidedly terrible, barring the odd outlier. Worrisome, however, much to his chagrin, had been relatively absent.

But it’s not the merman splashing patiently in the water that has him nervous; it’s the events that had transpired only moments before that have him floundering for reason and logic.

Stanley had kissed him, enveloped him in his arms, held him close to his chest and made love to his mouth. Stanley…is attracted to him, it’s so much, _too_ much, to take in and it’s not something he’s ever given himself room to consider, it’s not something he had ever thought would happen.

For years, decades, a _lifetime_ even, he had always wanted Stan secretly, never once taking the time to consider confessing or reconciling when things had gone oh so terribly wrong between them. He knows now that he’d much rather be with his brother than anywhere else, even if it means his affections never being returned, but now? Now he knows that there _is_ a chance at reciprocation, that Stan, at the very least, is attracted to him. It’s more than he could have ever have hoped for, it’s more than he could ever have dreamed he would have.

But still there is more than a little uncertainty left, for his relationship with his brother is in a state of flux, the tables having been more than just turned, more than just flipped in someone else’s favour; it’s more like they’ve been unscrewed, taken apart and made into something completely different. What once was a table is now an eight-story tall statue made in effigy to Ford’s abundant, _numerous_ , mistakes.

As one would expect, Ford finds himself wary, unwilling to take the exchange at face value, not with the threat of Bill Cipher looming over their heads and the uncertainty of Stan’s wavering mental state. Stan has been zoning out lately, lapsing into a catatonic state often enough to leave Ford worried and suspicious and, as much as he hates the mere thought of it, this could easily be a sign of Bill returning once more.

He doesn’t like to think about it and he already has in excruciating detail, but it’s still something he has to at least consider. He’d already spent the night before thinking up numerous ways and tricks the demon could have utilized to prolong his life and none of those thoughts had put him at ease.

He had even dreamt about their predicament…about Bill returning. For now he simply cannot discount the possibility of Stan’s ‘attraction’ being due to Bill’s influence or the possibility of it disappearing if they were to… _deal_ with the demon once and for all.

Besides, his brother had confessed to being attracted to Ford, but had clearly said nothing of romance, nor had he expressed the wish of becoming entangled with him. It’s a tenuous situation to be in certainly, but there are more pressing matters at hand than the Mobius strip of a relationship that he has with his brother.

He feels off-kilter and scattered, his mind as ill at ease as it had ever been during his more paranoid days, but he does his best to look forward, to keep his mind on the present. He takes a deep sigh and stares at the merman for a moment, eyes squinting at the half adolescent, half fish creature before him. It’s been a great number of years since last he saw a member of the genus _Homo oceanum,_ longer still since one approached him of their own accord.

By nature merfolk are usually skittish unless threatened. His studies on them had been far and few between but he had seen enough to know that they avoided humans as best as they could, never seeking them out unless there was significant enough reason to do so.

But this? This was an unprecedented encounter, odd in more ways than one; least of all being the fact the boy was wearing Stan’s lost beanie. Which, if he wasn’t mistaken, indicated that the merman had been following them for some time or had at least been tracking them towards the end of their journey.

He stills at the thought of the creature having followed them, his mind immediately turning over this information and wondering just how much of a potential threat this newcomer is. Not much, given his inability to stand on dry land, but in Ford’s experience he had found that one should not discount or underestimate hidden peril.

What does surprise Ford is the fact that the new arrival seems familiar to him, it’s almost as if he’s seen him somewhere before, but for the life of him Ford cannot remember where. Surprisingly, it’s Stan that takes the initiative and moves forward to greet the adolescent in front of them.

“Hey, hey…” Stan begins, his left hand scratching at the fuzz on his chin. “Don’t I know ya, kid?” He asks as he clearly tries to remember the youth. Suddenly his eyes widen and he glares at the merman. “Also don’t think I ain’t noticed what ya got on your head, you’re wearin’ my damn beanie, I thought I lost that thing for good!” He continues, his finger pointing towards the boy.

Ford’s head snaps towards Stan, confusion dancing across his face. “Stanley...you _know_ this merman?”

Stan looks back at Ford and nods. “I’m pretty sure I saw this guy hangin’ around with Mabel a while back and I think she wrote about him in that journal of yours, Sixer. The name’s Mario, Michael? I don’t know...somethin’ beginning with an ‘M’ anyhow.”

Ford suddenly feels idiotic; how could he forget Mabel’s entries in journal three? He remembers having been irritated and perturbed by their inclusion, he remembers never having felt the passage of time more clearly than when he had glanced upon his journal, seeing his old writings defiled – or so he had believed at the time – and replaced by the unprofessional scribblings of children.

He remembers reading them had unbalanced him at the time, as it was just another thing that had been changed and taken from him in his absence. Due to those unfortunate feelings, Ford knows he hadn’t memorized as much information as he now wishes he could have before throwing them into the Bottomless Pit, something he now regrets.

The boy coughs into his fist. “They call me Mermando.” He corrects. “And yes… _Mabel_ , I do in fact know your niece; we are pen pals, so to speak. She saved my life some time ago, delivering me back to the sea I had been so cruelly parted from.”

Stan and Ford share a look; leave it to their niece to have a merman for a pen pal. Mabel, in the time Ford had known her, had always been a sociable child, more so than Stanley and himself had been at that age. Ford looks at Mermando thoughtfully, patience wearing thin despite the explanation as to his identity. “And what does this have to do with you following us?”

“Ah.” Mermando replies and, before Ford can so much as reach for his dagger, reaches underneath Stan’s beanie perched atop his head. His hand reappears from underneath the fabric and clutched within it is a bottle; inside of it is a letter covered in an inordinate amount of glitter. Ford doesn’t need a second glance to know that’s clearly Mabel’s handiwork.

“Weeks ago I received a letter from her! She told me a tale of great woe, a tale of two brothers separated by mistakes and misunderstanding! She told me of the two of you and the events of what your people call ‘Weirdmageddon’, no?”

The two of them glance awkwardly at each other, it’s one thing to share their personal history with family members but to know strangers are aware of their unfortunate past? Well, it’s a tad embarrassing.

Ford frowns as he fully takes in Mermando’s words, or at least the implication of them. “You weren’t aware of Weirdmageddon before Mabel informed you?”

Mermando shrugs, his arms causing minute ripples in the water as he does so. “There has been talk among my people of… _odd_ things happening, of new creatures appearing and of others acting strangely but we had no name for it! In fact, the reason I am here is because of this oddness, my people have been migrating here as have other creatures…”

Mermando trails off, but smiles not long after and shakes his head. “But no matter, I am also here for another reason! When Mabel heard of our migration she told me of your travel plans and asked me to keep an eye on the both of you during your journey.”

Ford feels the tension in his shoulders ease, but there’s still a part of him that’s tense and concerned. Migration? He knew it was necessary at times but merfolk from Mexico migrating somewhere colder? Mass migration across a myriad of species, what could that mean? It _had_ to mean something given its unprecedented nature.

Perhaps Bill’s presence had done something to spook the supernatural community? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, Ford knew, if Gravity Falls could draw the odd and unnatural to it, then it stood to reason that there could be other places on Earth that could achieve a similar result.

Ford himself hadn’t really studied the world at large, instead favouring the US, as that had been where his funding had been restricted to. He had spared a glance at a couple of files and records once or twice out of sheer curiosity back in the day, but it hadn’t been enough to notice any patterns among the data he had perused, and he finds himself wishing he had studied the information more carefully and with more intent than he had done at the time.

Ford hums to himself, there’s nothing to be done about that now and there’s no way for him to access data he doesn’t have. The only thing he can do now is assess what’s in front of him and make sense of it.

To his side Stan also makes a thoughtful noise and seconds later he frowns at the merman. “You were followin’ us the whole time, right?”

Mermando shakes his head and points his thumb towards the water, gesticulating. “Oh no, it took some time to reach you both from the Gulf of Mexico. I’ve been following you since you entered the Bering Sea in fact.”

Stan nods and crosses his arms over his chest, he spares Ford a concerned, awkward look and all Ford can do is squint at his brother in confusion. “So…” Stan begins. “You’ve been watching us day in and day out since then?”

Mermando shrugs and looks almost oblivious to the odd expression on Stan’s face. “Only took my eyes off of you and your brother when necessary or when my people needed me, but otherwise yes.”

Stan shoots another look at Ford, his face urgent and Ford just stares back at him not understanding what Stan is clearly trying to convey through his expression. His mind is far too focused on the implications of Mermando’s earlier words about migration and emergence of new, previously unknown species.

“What you’re sayin’ is, you’ve probably seen pretty much everything that’s happened to us recently, right? Like why we crashed and what happened like two nights ago and shi-, uh, _stuff_?”

For a moment Ford stands there wondering how exactly two nights ago would be at all relevant but then it occurs to him and he chokes on thin air. Two nights ago hadn’t they…? Hadn’t Stan _kissed_ him? And if Mermando had been following them, _watching_ them for some time then…

He flinches at the mere idea of someone having seen them in a confusing but charged moment…had he seen them earlier too? The mere thought of it is discomfiting. It’s uncomfortable to think that an adolescent may have seen them in a moment of passionate –  in a moment of awaited and long sought-after – intimacy.

His hands shake at the thought that this information could easily get back to Dipper and Mabel, his shoulder hunch as he imagines how they’d react to the news of an incestuous relationship between them. The last thing he wants is to lose their respect, to lose their presence in his life and he knows it’s the last thing that his brother wants as well.

When next he eyes his brother they share a look of understanding.

Mermando’s expression changes as if he too has suddenly realized the reasoning behind Stanley’s questions and prompting. “…I have seen, _ah_ , a great number of things since I departed from my home.” Mermando tells them, voice knowing as he looks at them apprehensively with a blush growing on his face.

Stan groans at Mermando’s answer and paces along the shoreline, looking for all intents and purposes like the world has ended. Ford can’t really blame him; they only just came together as a family it would be devastating to lose that only now. “This is a personal matter we wish our niece to be unaware of, ah, so perhaps we could convince you to-”

Mermando holds up a hand to silence him, his face looking as intensely uncomfortable as one would expect him to be. Ford hardly believes Mermando would’ve agreed to look out for them on their journey had he known that this would happen, however he hopes his care for Mabel far outweighs any disgust he has towards them...although that might be too much to ask for.

“What I saw is of no concern to me, it is your secret to tell and I wouldn’t wish to meddle in Mabel’s life like this. I followed you both as a favour to her…that is my duty and _this_ -” He gestures clumsily between the two of them. “-bears no weight on that.”

Ford nods at him gratefully, thankful that the merman’s kind has always been so gracious.

Stan still looks at him shiftily, eyes narrowed like he doesn’t believe Mermando’s reassurance. “ _Alright_ …” Stan begins, hands resting in his pockets like he’s trying to appear as casual as possible. “Anyway forget all of this stupid chit-chat! We’re stuck on this damn island if ya hadn’t already noticed, Gills. We need you to send a message to somebody so we can get the hell off of this rock.”

Ford nods but then looks down thoughtfully, his hand rubbing at his chin. “I doubt you’d be willing to compromise the secrecy of your species to save us, so the coastguard and other similar services are clearly out of the running.”

Stanley growls in irritation and kicks a pebble into the ocean to get out some restless energy. “Oh, _come on,_ this is more important than keeping fish people a goddamn secret! Right Stanford? Back me up here, Sixer-”

“Stanley, if I were him I wouldn’t risk my family over some strangers whose species is well known for hunting mine, would you?”

“ _Ugh._ ” Stan clenches his fist inside of his pocket. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“I could send Mabel a bottled message.” Mermando supplies. “But it could be weeks, months, before she receives it.”

Stan looks over his shoulder at Ford. “And we could be dead by then.”

At that Ford takes slight offense and so he places a hand on his side and shoots his brother an unimpressed look. “I’ve survived in worse with _less_ , Stanley.” He sighs to himself. “But I don’t want to spend any more time here than you do either.” Especially not when Bill is still a pressing concern, is what he doesn’t say.

Suddenly he’s struck by an idea. “I know a man I know we can trust, who no doubt has the resources needed to aid us; Fiddleford McGucket. He lives in Gravity Falls, in the manor that used to belong to the Northwests. Do you know of it?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t get to see much of Gravity Falls before I left, but I can get word out to any of my people in the area and convince them to pass along your current urgent condition and location.”

There isn’t much to say after that, the boy has his marching orders, so to speak, and he looks eager to leave and return to his family, and Ford doesn’t blame him. If their places were reversed he’d want to leave as quickly as possible as well; it can’t be easy knowing or having witnessed something as…taboo as the relationship that Stan and himself share, it would be enough to shake anyone, let alone an adolescent boy.

They talk a little bit more before he leaves, both of them telling him any information they can think of that might need to be relayed to McGucket. Before Mermando swims off, however, Stan stops him with an expectant look at his beanie and an outstretched palm.

Eyebrow raised, Stan gestures to his awaiting hand. “Fork it over, fish legs.”

It takes a second but eventually the boy places Stan’s dripping beanie into his grasp, his brother makes a face and wrings the material of water. Once he’s done, he brings it up to his nose and sniffs it before reeling back with a disgusted expression plastered on his face. “Ugh! This smells like some nasty ass seaweed.”

Ford laughs to himself, wondering what exactly his brother had expected it to smell like as Stan jerks the offending article of clothing away from his nose. After a second he throws it back at Mermando, who’s watching him whilst chuckling at Stan’s reaction. “You can have the damn thing back!” He shouts to the retreating youth, who grabs the beanie from the water and places it atop his head again.

Once he leaves they stand there for a couple of minutes, both digesting their most recent encounter. After a moment Stan gives a thoughtful hum. “Ya know what I don’t get?”

Ford frowns at his brother, his expression urging Stan to continue.

“How that damn beanie stays on his head, I mean like, wouldn’t it just fall off?” Stan asks, arms outstretched in confusion. “Unless he’s got some kinda weird fish magic I don’t know about.”

“Out of all the things you could find weird, _that_ is what confuses you?” Ford chuckles, shaking his head; trust his brother to wonder about that, of all things. “But yes _Homo oceanum_ do have a few magical properties, although I never studied the species enough to know their full extent. But it’s fair to say that normal rules when it comes to water simply don’t apply to them in most cases.”

After that a silence settles between them, awkward and not entirely unexpected…much has happened in the space of barely even a few days, of course things would be tense between them. Especially when many things remain unresolved, when many things remain uncertain between them.

Ford coughs into his fist knowing he has to be the one to speak first, but Stan’s voice breaks through the air quicker than he can start a sentence.

“I got a confession to make, Sixer.” Stanley begins, a hand scratching anxiously at the back of his neck where his hair meets his collar, and Ford feels his stomach clenching, nervous at his brother’s words. “I actually kinda came on your ass today.”

“What.” Ford says, eyes squinting at his brother oddly...did Stan just say what he thinks he did? “How, uh, _what_ -”

Stan grimaces at Ford’s expression and places his hands in his pockets as if resisting the urge to either gesticulate wildly or cross his arms over his chest. “You know how when ya got up this mornin’ your ass was a little wet?”

Ford’s eyes widen. “Y-you _didn’t_ -”

“Yeeeah, I- I kinda _did_.” Stan replies, hands rising from his pockets to gesture almost protectively. “In my defence though, I just woke up! I was hard and stuff and you know it just kind of happened. Sorry?” The last part he no doubt adds on mostly as an afterthought, knowing his brother.

“You don’t sound very sorry, Stanley.” Ford says, annoyed but not overly so. Trust Stan to act like a teenager when it comes their particular…relationship. “So this is why my pants were damp when I got up, I knew something was off with you when I woke up, but I’m surprised I didn’t put two and two together…”

“So…you’re _not_ mad?”

“I would’ve appreciated _consent_ before you decided to stain my pants but that’s hardly the worst thing either of us has done to the other, but next time you…find yourself hard against me; wake me, I’m sure I can be of more use to you awake.”

Stan laughs to himself, tension easing out of him a little but not by much; Ford can tell the idea of…them is new to Stan, that as much as he’s claimed to want Ford he’s still uncomfortable in some way, even if Stan himself is unaware of it. “Did you just _proposition_ me, Poindexter?”

“Perhaps.” Ford says and before either him or Stan can say anything else, Ford’s stomach rumbles, ah yes, he’s forgotten he hadn’t yet had breakfast. Stan had begun preparing it, but their conversation and Mermando’s arrival had interrupted them.

Stan grins at Ford and moves back towards their shelter, his hands grabbing hold of the rabbit he had been working on earlier. “Alright then, Sixer, less talkin’ and more feeding that little demon we call your stomach.”

Ford takes a seat on the wood and sighs. “Is that really an appropriate thing to say given-”

“Given Bill?” Stan finishes for him, his knife sliding through the rabbit’s skin like a hot knife through butter, and for a moment Ford can only stare, can only think about the casual display strength Stan hasn’t even noticed he’s performed. Stan has always been physical, so it shouldn’t be a surprise, and he’s already seen Stan skinning rabbits before, but the atmosphere between them has changed since then and he’s no longer tired. He still aches from his wounds but he’s had far, far worse than this, and so the pain just fades into the background like out-of-focus scenery in a photograph as he watches his brother.

“I mean it probably is pretty inappropriate.” Stan continues. “But when have we ever been _appropriate_ , huh? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my long-ass life, one thing that the kids helped me remember, it’s that it’s better to make a joke outta stuff instead of takin’ it serious all the time.”

For a moment Ford wants to reach over and still his brother’s hands, for a moment he wants to grab and hold them in his own and tell Stanley that he loves him, that Stanley has never failed to make the complex and unfathomable easy and bearable. Something that he had been missing all these years. Stan’s presence has never been a complete solution to his problems, but before… _everything,_ he had been a balm to wounds even Ford couldn’t name. Even now he’s still the same.

Ford nods, silent and with nothing of value to say in response, he just sits there quietly without a word. It doesn’t take too long for Stan to finish up Ford’s rabbit, most of his work already having been done earlier. They chatter mindlessly during Ford’s meal, Stan regaling him with tales of his managing the Shack, and when Ford is finished he clears his throat with a cough.

Fingers tapping nervously across his seat, he sighs and forces them to stop, he needs to be confident about this, he needs to channel the courage he’s gained during his studies and his time travelling the multiverse. He needs to start acting like the man that is, he isn’t some shrinking violet or shy teen, he’s a grown man and the only way to get what he wants is to risk what he already has.

He’s uncertain and worried about their future, but he isn’t one to back down from a challenge and avoiding this would be giving into fear, it would be letting Bill win and that’s the last thing he wants, the last thing either of them wants, he knows.

 “We didn’t really get a chance to talk about, well, _us_ before being interrupted.”

Stan shrugs casually. “What’s there to talk about? You want me and I want you, which is a pretty new thing for me, but we’ll figure it out.”

“How new? And why?” He asks.

Stan squints at him, an irritated expression overcoming his face.

 “I don’t know, Sixer, okay? I don’t keep a diary or anything like you do, it’s not like I know the exact moment my feelings changed or whatever. It probably happened before I got you back or something, I don’t really know. I was lonely and I was just too focused on you and, ya know, gettin’ you back, to think about anything else. It was all that mattered to me and like when things got tough and I felt like givin’ up, I’d remind myself of all your nerdy puns and how when you’d laugh at my jokes you’d always shake all over like whatever I’d said was the funniest damn thing you’d ever heard.”

Stan pauses and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to avoid looking Ford in the eye. He looks embarrassed like being this honest, this emotional, is somehow shameful, and Ford understands; this is difficult for the both of them, this is a type of vulnerability that is hard-earned, a type of vulnerability they weren’t taught to embrace. A type of vulnerability they were only ever taught to avoid.

“I’d remember watching old movies with ya every other Saturday in the living room while Ma and Pa went out to that really cheap diner down on the boardwalk. When things got tough I’d remember us fallin’ asleep on the Stan o’ War after a long day of fixin’ her up only then to hightail it back home so dad didn’t kick off about us bein’ lazy good for nothings.” He laughs to himself and Ford opens his mouth to interrupt.

“Stanley-”

His brother simply holds out a hand to silence him and Ford’s mouth snaps shut without barely even a clink. “And you know what? When I _really_ wanted to remember why I was slavin’ away day in and day out, I’d close my eyes and I’d remind myself of how ya used to patch me up after every boxin’ match. I’d close my eyes and wrinkle my nose up remembering how bad disinfectant felt as ya pressed a rag onto my cuts to clean ‘em, I’d remember how it smelled godawful too but mostly? I’d remember how, more than any other time, that’s when I knew you were the best damn thing in my life and that I was so goddamn lucky to have a brother like you.”

Ford gulps and feels a lump forming in the back of his throat, he can feel his heart beating frantically and his hands becoming wet with sweat. Stan’s words make him feel warm inside, loved and cherished in ways he never has before and for a moment he feels…selfish and fake, as if his love for Stan is weaker in comparison, as if he’s been lying to himself for years.

There were days where he didn’t think about Stan, there were weeks and months where his brother never even crossed his mind, too lost in his research and his anger to let himself think of Stan. He spent years resenting him in one way or another – and despising himself in the moments where he did look back on Stan fondly– and yet he had the nerve to claim he’d been in love with his brother for years. But this? The way Stan is talking is far more poignant and romantic than he has ever been and it’s more than he has ever deserved from his brother.

Ford swallows. “…and, and that was enough to keep you going? That was enough to keep you working on the portal?”

Stan leans closer and places a hand on Ford’s left knee. “That would be enough to keep anybody going.” He tells Ford, the corner of his lips turned upwards in a soft smile.

“For thirty years?” Ford questions. “I’ve had feelings for you for far longer than you for me…and despite that I’m not sure if I would’ve worked for thirty years to get you back had I been in your position.”

Stan chuckles awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable and as soon as Ford sees him rub at the back of his neck, as soon as Ford feels Stan’s hand slide off of his knee he knows his brother is hurt by his honesty. “Well, ya wouldn’t have needed to, Sixer; you’re smarter than me and you were the one who made the thing in the first place and knew where all the journals were. If you were in my place you’d have probably have got it workin’ in like, a couple of weeks or somethin’.”

Ford doesn’t know what to say, he already feels like he’s said far too much, he already feels like he’s gone and said the wrong thing like he always does in regards to Stan. The only thing he can do is reach forward and place a hand on Stan’s shoulder, the only thing he can do is get close enough to his brother that their legs are brushing up against each other.

“What I mean is knowing me I wouldn’t have touched the portal again; Bill would’ve been too much of a threat for me to have done otherwise-”

“…so what you’re sayin’ is you wouldn’t have even _tried_ to get me back if it’d been me that fell in?” Stan asks, his expression marred by a frown. He looks just as hurt as he had been the moment Ford had punched him upon exiting the portal, it is…not a reassuring look on his brother’s face.

“That’s, that’s not what I mean-”

“I see how it is.” He can feel Stan stiffening at his touch, his body going still and tense. God, does he ever want to place a hand on Stan’s cheek and kiss him, god does he ever want to reassure him of his feelings but he doesn’t know if his brother wants that right now. 

“Stanley, please, if you’d just let me finish! You _never_ let me finish-” Ford says, hand rising to Stan’s cheek but it sails through the air as Stan gets up and moves away, their legs no longer touching as Stan grabs his dagger from where it had been resting on the side.

“I’m gonna go and collect firewood or something.” Stan tells him, looking away from him as he fiddles with and thumbs the dagger in his hand.

Ford gets up and trails behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Let me grab my things and I’ll come with you, I already know the layout of some of the forest-”

Stan frowns and shakes off his brother’s hand. “Alone!” Stanley shouts, his fists clenched as his words almost deafen Ford with how quiet the rest of their surroundings are. “I’ve gotta do this _alone_.” He continues, brows furrowed as he rubs at his head as if a headache is forming. Turning around, he shakes his head at Ford telling him clear as day not to follow, and without another word he walks away from camp. He doesn’t give Ford even a moment to think, he doesn’t give Ford even a second to say something that will somehow fix this.

Ford groans to himself when Stan disappears out of sight, his hand coming up to rest against his forehead, he sighs, clenches his fist and pounds it against his thigh. For such a genius he truly is a dunce, he can never seem to say the right thing to his brother, no matter the situation.

Sometimes it’s intentional callousness, used to deliver facts in a way that he knows will hurt his brother; in the past that has most definitely been the case more often than not. He loves Stanley but he has never shied away from hurting him, never shied away from using honesty and truth to wound; not when he felt righteous and justified in doing so. But even now, when the last thing he wants to do is hurt Stan, he still ends up unintentionally doing so and it frustrates him to no end.

He paces as his brother disappears out of sight, wondering whether or not to go after him, wondering whether it’s truly a good idea to interrupt Stan when he needs a moment alone, when he’s upset and perhaps even angry at Ford. He doesn’t know if Stan will appreciate him intruding upon his alone time, he doesn’t know if him rushing to apologize will cause more harm than good.

He waits for ten minutes, nervously fiddling with his hands and pacing back and forth, irritated with himself, before he decides to run off after his brother. He would’ve waited longer but they’re trapped on an island in the arctic ocean and he worries how his brother will fair without a lit fire and knowledge of his surroundings.

Hand wrapped firmly around his dagger he uses the other to part a dense thicket. He squints and scans the area looking for any sign of broken branches or foot prints and quickly finds a distinct tread in the icy mud.

“Stanley?” He calls out as he follows Stan’s obvious path. “I’m sorry for what I said, and, and I know it was the last thing you would’ve wanted to hear from me but I didn’t want to lie to you. I was selfish back then and focused on the bigger picture, but I was single-minded in my approach. I’d never have thought of a solution that both got you back _and_ protected the world-” He curses and hisses as he falls to the ground, tripping over the uneven footing.

He manages to save himself with a hand pressed firmly into the dirt. His eyes widen and he freezes in place when he catches sight of Stan’s glasses lying on the ground. Oh, god _no_. Not his brother, not now. He grabs them, places them in his pocket and stands up quickly, his eyes frantic as he searches his surroundings. “Stanley!” Ford shouts. “Where are you?”

To Ford’s surprise he gets a response, and it’s a pinecone hitting him squarely on the forehead. “Shush!” He hears a very familiar voice hush him rather aggressively from somewhere far above. Ford glances upwards only to see his brother, his insufferable, _inconsiderate_ brother, whom he had been so awfully worried about, staring down at him from the branches of a sturdy tree.

 “Be quiet, Sixer, or that thing will come back!” He finishes, and Ford’s hand clenches around his dagger. It’s not everyday something manages to spook his brother quite so efficiently; his brother has never been one to run from a fight, even when the odds of winning are low.

Ford reaches for his back pocket, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. He can practically imagine his trench coat flapping through the air, but he isn’t in the portal anymore. He isn’t as prepared for battle as he wishes he were and he doesn’t have his gun; all he has is his dagger and his brother, the latter of which he is far luckier to have.

“…do you have your dagger?” Ford questions, his voice a whisper, sweat already beading on his forehead as he lowers into a crouch, guarding the area near Stan’s tree.

His brother nods and he’s already beginning to climb down to the join him when Stan’s hand slips on the bark and his foot loses purchase. Unfortunately, Ford doesn’t get there in time to catch him as he falls to the ground.

“Ow,” Stan groans, his hand rubbing at his back. “Jesus Christ on a Graham cracker, motherfuckin’ _ouch_.”

Ford out stretches a hand to help his brother up. Stan quickly takes it, and as he pulls Stan up, he wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asks him quietly, his mouth resting on the rim of his ear. “What happened while you were away?”

“I ain’t gonna be runnin’ any marathons, that’s for sure, if that big ass goddamn dragon comes back and we need to run, ya gotta leave me behind, Sixer.”

Did Stanley just say what he thought he had? A dragon, really? He had never seen such a thing in Gravity Falls, he’d seen the odd and the absurd but never a dragon. He’d seen similar things whilst travelling the multiverse, but never in his home dimension.

“I’m not leaving you behind, Stan, and when we get out of this I’m going to wallop you for even suggesting I do that.”

Stan gives a strained laugh. “Kinky.” He pauses. “But yeah I don’t really remember what happened much my head was killin’ me and my damn eye started bleeding and I ran into the damn thing after I took a leak. I saw it and knew I wouldn’t be able to take it all on my own and so I climbed up that tree. My damn glasses fell off though whilst I was up there.”

Ford’s body stills as Stan’s words wash over him like a tidal wave over a beach. He stares at his brother in horror, fear marring his features. Stan looks back at him with confusion. “Stanford…?” Stan questions, a lump forming in his throat, and Ford can hear the hesitance in his brother’s voice.

 Had his brother read his pages on Bill? It’s doubtful, in his paranoid state he’d ripped them out before hiding the book away – stupid of him really, taking away helpful, _useful_ , information that could’ve informed his brother and the twins of the risks of associating with Bill Cipher – and anything he _hadn’t_ ripped out Bill had done so himself whilst possessing him. It was only when the journals had been magically restored after Weirdmageddon that the pages had returned.

Ford bites his lip and does his best to school his expression into something resembling calm, he doesn’t want to alarm his brother, they need to think rationally, after all, and it’s likely his brother will react…negatively to the truth.

Besides, Ford could be overreacting – it could be things other than Bill’s influence; it could even be an injury from their crash or a by-product of it. He regrets not having had the good sense to check his brother over like Stan had done for him.

Ford opens and closes his mouth trying to figure out what to say, trying to figure out the words that will keep his twin calm but give Ford enough information to assess whether or not his brother is…a danger. He doesn’t get the chance as the sound of rustling bushes and sticks breaking echoes around them and they freeze, unsure of what to do. Barely a second later a huge, lizard-like head moves into view.

“Shit!” Stan curses underneath his breath and Ford blindly raises a hand to his brother’s mouth to silence him, his eyes still firmly locked onto the beast getting closer and closer to them.

He waits with bated breath, hoping that the creature will pass them by, but it’s doubtful that it will. If they move now they risk attracting the monster’s attention, so they stand there paralyzed, Ford’s hand still on Stan’s mouth and Ford can feel Stan’s breath rushing warm and frantic through the gaps in his fingers.

Ford’s mind is already trying to devise a battle plan as he stares at the monster from afar. The creature is looking away from them, at something far to the left. As its body comes into full view, Ford watches as its scales slide together like interconnected metal plates, he observes as the dragon’s tail sweeps across the ground and cuts down bushes and topples a tree as if it were a scythe wielded by Death himself.

Squinting at the monster, Ford’s eyes scan the reptile for any kind of exploitable weakness that he can easily use to his advantage, after a moment of careful observation he notices a lack of scales around the eyes and the smoothness of the monster’s stomach. Immediately plans to focus his attacks on the beast’s vulnerable underside flood his mind.

His breath rushes out of him as he feels something wet touch the hand pressed to Stan’s mouth. It’s no doubt sweat trickling down from Stan’s brow. A part of Ford isn’t sure, but it’s concern he can’t afford. Discomfort and ill at ease itches underneath his skin like his flesh doesn’t fit right on his bones, but he can’t look back at his brother; a mere second could make all the difference and he doesn’t want to look away from the immediate threat looming over them.

For a moment time stands still, fate uncertain and swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, swinging like the deadly arc of the dragon’s tail as it swipes above Stan and Ford’s heads and topples the tree they had been standing under. The two of them scramble, stumble and slither across the ground as they try to avoid the weight of the tree falling on top of them.

When Ford catches himself, hands gripping for purchase on the ground, he chokes, winded and distraught as he spies the hand he had placed on Stanley’s mouth sticky with his brother’s blood. His head whips towards his brother and his eyes widen and his stomach drops as yellow eyes instead of brown greet him, as a sharp grin instead of a crooked one spreads across his brother’s face.

“BEEN A LONG TIME, SIXER.” A distorted, all too familiar voice says, as Ford’s heart skips a beat – but no, it’s too early for that heart attack just yet; he has years before he’s ninety-two, after all. Never has he felt more close to one than now, though, never has he felt such an intense sense of crushing dread as he does hearing Bill’s voice echo around him and fill the air like smoke from a forest fire, burning the very heart of him.

A sudden urge to raise his dagger in Bill’s direction grabs him by the collar, instinct almost taking over as his body moves forward to grab Bill by the lapels of Stanley’s jacket. “Well, well, _WELL_ , isn’t SOMEBODY a little _FRISKY_? HAH! Keyed up from getting cock blocked, ARE WE? _FOR SHAME_ , IQ!” Bill takes a moment to laugh and raises a hand to condescendingly pat at Ford’s cheek, knowing that Ford can’t make a single move to harm him lest he hurt his own brother. “I know Stanley’s a bit more VANILLA and CIRCULAR than you’re _usually_ into, but did you really miss me THAT MUCH? Colour me _FLATTERED_ , Stanford!”

Anger floods him at the mere insinuation, the mere _implication_ that any feelings he’d once had for Bill still remain, and that his brother his somehow inadequate, somehow lacking, when there is nothing further from the truth than that.

He growls, teeth bared in a snarl, but before he can fully react to Bill’s words the behemoth – that Ford had momentarily forgotten – comes charging at them, a large clawed hand swiping at them, and Ford is forced to yank Bill to the side to avoid Stan being wounded.

It’s ironic, protecting Bill when that’s the last thing he wants, when he’d rather destroy the demon himself then and there, if only he were able. If he could he’d rip the triangle limb from limb, yellow brick by yellow brick and he’d pull Bill’s eye from its socket and crush it underneath his heel. He’s never hated anything as much as he hates Bill, only his anger towards Stanley comes close and that knowledge upsets him even more. Shame fills him at the memory that he had ever held them in similar regard, that he had ever had such negative feelings for his brother.

Bill’s laugh startles him from his thoughts and he watches in horror as Stan’s body gets up and moves towards the dragon, whose tail tenses and its scales coil as if ready to attack them. “WELL, that was _RUDE!_ ” Bill tells the beast and Ford can see the reptile straightening its back, its body language changing. The creature must sense something off about Bill, it must sense something decidedly inhuman and otherworldly about the demon possessing his brother’s body.

Bill steps forward, hands resting in Stan pockets casually as he saunters confidently in the direction of the dragon, and Ford’s hands tremble and shock shakes him to the core as he sees the monster take a step backwards.

The creature stares at Bill for a second and Bill stretches out a leg, slow and deliberate and after a tense moment the reptile drops its tail between its legs and lowers its wings so they’re flat against the monster’s back. Everything about the beast’s body language is submissive and Ford watches on, surprise decorating his face as Bill looks over Stanley’s shoulder at him.

“Didn’t expect THAT, did you _NOW_ , IQ?” Bill asks, his grin sharp and cocky as it’s always been and Ford can’t imagine why such a powerful creature as a dragon would shrink under Bill’s gaze.

Ford glares at Bill, but inwardly he’s pleased that…whatever Bill is doing is working, that whatever has the dragon scared is in their favour; he hadn’t been confident that his plan to attack the beast would work.

The dragon stares at Bill for a little while before unfurling its wings and Ford wonders if it’s decided to attack instead of cowering. To his surprise, however, it slowly and carefully turns around, spreads its wings and flies off into the distance, leaving the two, no, _three_ of them alone, for now.

Ford’s eyebrows furrow and he frowns at Bill, confused as to how Bill managed to save them from coming to blows with the beast. Bill chuckles, loud and irritating at Ford’s clear bewilderment. “Confused, FORDSY? Let’s just say that overgrown lizard used to be friends with a _CERTAIN_ OVERSIZED COSMIC SALAMANDER, their kind know not to mess with me unless they want their wings RIPPED from their back and used as a pair CURTAINS!”

  “What in Tesla’s name are you talking about?” Ford hisses out as he once again grabs a hold of Bill. He is far too impatient for this, far too impatient for Bill’s usual monologuing. When Bill doesn’t answer immediately he shakes him and Bill merely giggles erratically in response.

“You really didn’t learn ANYTHING while in the portal, _DID YOU_ , FORDSY? You never hear about the Axolotl, kiddo?”

Axolotl…? Where has he heard that name before? The name sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it, can’t quite remember where he’s heard it from. He thinks hard for a moment, trying to place the name, he knows it’s the name of a neotenic salamander and Bill’s description of the creature had pretty much confirmed it was a similar being, if oversized.

After a couple of seconds it suddenly dawns on him; he _has_ heard that name before, mostly in passing, but he remembers the Oracle, he remembers Jheselbraum and her mountaintop shrine and how the place had been filled the Axolotl imagery.  He just doesn’t understand the significance. “No,” he replies simply.

Bill grins pointedly at him, obviously pleased that Ford is just as obtuse as always. “Let’s just say Axolotl is the big guy in charge, we go back a LONG, _LONG_ WAY-” Bill pauses and shakes Stan’s head.

“-but that doesn’t matter! YOU KNOW WHAT _DOES_? What I have planned for you and your naughty, _NAUGHTY_ BROTHER! I always KNEW you had a thing for dear ol’ Stanley, good on you, Sixer, GOOD ON YOU FOR FINALLY TELLING HIM!” Bill smiles, a mean little grin spreading across his brother’s face that has Ford already recoiling inside, some part of him is already shrinking away, knowing better than to trust Bill’s praise, knowing better than to underestimate Bill. “Good on _YOU_ because, oh _STANFORD_ , it’s going to hurt so much _MORE_ when I take everything away from you! It’s going to hurt so much worse when I scrape out every little piece of Stanley inside this meat sack’s brain and hollow him out from the inside! Not that there’s MUCH OF HIM! HAHAHA!”

“Stop it!” Ford shouts and he shakes Bill again, shaking him hard enough that Bill almost chokes on his laughter, but he doesn’t stop, he just keeps laughing like Ford’s anger is the most humorous thing in this galaxy or the next. It sounds eerily like how Stanley had laughed days ago when he had kissed Ford on the Stan o’ War, and that knowledge cuts him to the bone and has him fraying at the edges. Here Bill is ruining everything again, here Bill is making him doubt and worry; here Bill is taking his hard-earned happiness away as quick as the rising tide overtakes the shore.

“SHUT UP!” He practically screams at Bill, he can’t take it anymore as Bill’s laugh fills his ears and drowns out all good sense. His heart is racing and he feels…trapped as memories of sleepless nights and the endless feeling of helplessness – in the wake of something greater and something more terrifying than him – fill him. He pants heavily, fear and fury overwhelming him as his vision goes red in anger, his vision goes red at the mere idea of Bill taking Stanley away from him. He won’t let that happen, he can’t, he’d sooner die than see his brother hurt, he’d sooner die than see his brother a husk again.

All rational thought and sense of control leaves him as his hand comes up to punch at Bill’s – his _brother’s_ – face against his own will, his body reacting as if on autopilot.  “I won’t let you, I _won’t!_ You can’t have him, Bill, you hear me, you insane three-sided _monster_? You can’t have him!”

Bill smirks back at him and Ford can see fresh blood dotting Stan’s lip, Ford can see blood decorating the yellow-white of Stan’s teeth and he immediately feels the anger drain from him…he can’t believe what he’s done, he can’t believe he let his anger get the best of him. “We’ll see about that, IQ.” Bill replies. “We’ll _SEE_ ABOUT THAT.” Bill continues, spitting Stan’s bloody saliva at Ford’s face before going slack in Ford’s arms.

Ford’s arms shake with Stanley’s weight and he lowers them both slowly to the ground, his hands trembling with anger or with fear, he doesn’t know which; it could easily be both. A couple of minutes pass whilst Ford ruminates on Bill’s words, his mind swimming with the knowledge that Bill has returned; what this means for him and Stan he doesn’t know. Eventually he feels a hand pat gently at his arm.

“Sixer?” He hears Stanley question cautiously.

Ford looks his brother up and down carefully, looking for any sign that this is Bill trying to trick him, that this is Bill merely trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He looks carefully at Stan’s eyes, looking for any hint of yellow, looking for any hint that Bill is trying to play him. He sighs with relief and his body relaxes immediately when he sees Stan’s eyes have returned to their normal shade of brown.

“What the fuck happened?” Stan asks him, a frown marring his features which then quickly turns into a grimace as his face scrunches up in pain. “I feel like I just went a round in the ring with King Kong.”

Ford bites his lip, feeling immediately guilt for how Stan sways and almost stumbles as he helps his brother stand. “It’s a long story.” He tells Stan as he slides the glasses Stanley had dropped earlier onto his brother’s face. He even lets his hand linger for a second, his fingers brushing delicately against his brother skin as he tries to reassure himself that Stanley is still here, that Bill hasn’t won yet and that there’s still time to stop whatever he does have planned – and he knows Bill; he always has something planned.

Stan gives him a pointed look, crosses his arms over his chest and Ford can easily read the fatigue stretched across his brother face even as he pokes his tongue at his own bloodied lip. “Give me the short version, Stanford.”

Ford looks his brother straight in the eye, taking in the sight of his brother’s blood stained cheeks and split lip, taking in the sight of his worried expression, which he knows will grow even more concerned in but a moment’s time.

“Bill…” Ford begins, voice low. “He’s back, Stanley.”


End file.
